1*1 


'ma 


RATHER    LIKE.... 


.  OF  CALIF.  LfSRARY.  LOS  ANGETffl 


RATHER  LIKE . . 

SOME    ENDEAVOURS    TO 

ASSUME    THE    MANTLES 

OF    THE    GREAT    BY 

JULES    CASTIER. 

WITH     A 

PUBLISHER'S    NOTE 

EMBODYING  THE 
OPINIONS      OF 

THE    GREAT 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

LONDON  :   HERBERT    JENKINS   LTD. 
I92O. 


PRINTED  IN  ENGLAND  BY  CHANCE  AND  BLAND  LTD..  GLOUCESTER. 


PUBLISHER'S    NOTE 

When  M.  Castier's  manuscript  was  introduced  to 
me  as  the  work  of  one  writing  in  an  alien  tongue,  and 
furthermore  with  the  avowed  object  of  parodying  the 
most  famous  British  writers  of  the  day,  I  confess  I 
was  not  enthusiastic.  A  glance  at  a  page  here  and 
there,  however,  aroused  my  interest,  and  later  I  read 
it  with  keen  enjoyment. 

Having  dealt  with  the  rapacities  of  M.  Castier's 
literary  representatives,  I  felt  that  such  an  unusual 
book  should  be  introduced  to  the  public  in  a  somewhat 
different  manner  from  that  usually  adopted.  I 
therefore  determined  to  send  a  proof  of  each  parody 
to  the  author  parodied.  This  I  did  with  the  following 
letter. 

"  I  am  approaching  you  on  rather  an  unusual 
subject.  Some  time  ago  I  had  submitted  to  me,  as 
the  work  of  a  young  Frenchman,  a  series  of  parodies 
on  the  work  of  leading  English  writers,  which  had  been 
written  whilst  he  was  a  prisoner  in  Germany.  They 
were  so  remarkable  that  I  became  keenly  interested, 
with  the  result  that  I  accepted  the  book  for  publication. 

"  What  I  should  like  to  do  is  to  publish  in  a  foreword 
the  opinions  of  the  authors  who  have  been  parodied, 
and  to  this  end  I  am  sending  you  a  set  of  proofs  of 
the  parody  of  your  own  work. 

2129286 


6  PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

"  When  I  tell  you  that  not  so  much  as  a  comma 
has  been  altered  since  the  manuscript  left  the  author's 
hands,  you  will  appreciate  how  remarkable  it  is  that 
a  Frenchman  should  be  able  to  write  so  in  an  alien 
tongue. 

"  I  may  add  that  nearly  all  the  principal  writers 
of  the  day  are  included  in  the  volume.  If  you  can 
find  time  to  express  your  opinion  I  shall  be  greatly 
obliged." 

The  answers  I  give  below  in  their  alphabetical 
order. 

F.  ANSTEY  :    "  To  be  parodied  is  for  an  author 
the  highest  of  compliments  and  one  which   I  have 
never  previously  received.     So  I  have  read '  An  Officer's 
Gefangenenlager  '    with  much  interest  and  pleasure 
and   am   greatly   impressed   by   its   French   author's 
perfect   command   of   the   English   language.     If  my 
age  had  permitted  and  it  had  been  my  fate  to  be  an 
officer-prisoner  in  a  German  Camp,  I  can  only  hope 
that  I  should  have  been  able  to  describe  the  surround- 
ings with  as  much  humour  and  effect  as  my  parodist. 
But  I  doubt  it." 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON  :    "  It  is  certainly  an  ex- 
cellent imitation  of  my  writing  ;  and  probably  greatly 
preferable   to   the   original.     I    certainly   think   it   a 
notable  achievement  even  for  the  most  sympathetic 
foreigner ;    to  write   a  good   translation   of  what   a 
man  did  say  involves  being  a  man  of  letters  in  two 
languages  ;    but  to  write  a  good  travesty  of  what  he 
might  say  is  a  much  more  remarkable  thing  ;    and  I 
for   one   would   rather   read   the   travesty   than   the 
translation." 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY  :  "I  liked  the  wooden 
spaniel,  and  was  so  glad  when  he  fell  and  killed  the 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE  7 

Frenchman.  But  what  a  pity  he  didn't  fall  in  the 
third  sentence  and  kill  the  parody.  They  are,  surely, 
not  so  easy  to  make  as  all  that." 

CHARLES  GARVICE  :  "  The  pitfall  into  which 
most  parodists  are  so  apt  to  fall,  is  that  of  over- 
exaggeration  ;  too  frequently  they  seize  on  an  obvious 
fault  or  weakness  of  the  writer  whose  work  they  are 
burlesquing,  and  harp  upon  it  unduly ;  in  short,  they 
are  in  danger  of  missing  the  spirit  of  their  author  in 
their  efforts  to  belabour,  with  their  jester's  bladder, 
the  superficial  defects  of  his  workmanship.  Our 
parodist  avoids  this  common  error  and,  penetrating 
below  the  surface  of  his  victim's  style  and  mental 
processes,  parodies  with  a  subtlety  which  is  all  the 
more  remarkable,  seeing  that  it  is  displayed  by  a 
foreigner,  to  whom  the  tortuous  peculiarities  of  our 
exasperatingly  rich  language  should  be  almost  incom- 
prehensible. If  I  may  say  so,  I  consider  that  he  has 
been  more  merciful  to  me  than  I  deserve.  If  I  were 
parodying  my  own  work,  I  am  sure  I  could  easily  be 
more  cruel  than  my  imitator  has  been  ;  this,  no  doubt, 
accounts  for  my  appreciation  and  enjoyment  of  the 
skit.  I  can  chuckle  over  the  description  '  bairns  ' 
and  '  colleens,'  as  applied  to  Devonshire  children  ;  of 
course,  the  words  are  never  used  in  that  county :  I 
can  smile  at  the  grammatical  distortions,  the  split 
infinitives,  the  divided  verbs,  while  I  ask  myself,  in 
fear  and  trembling,  whether  I  have  ever  been  guilty 
of  so  vapid  and  uninteresting  a  story  as  that  which 
our  jester  has  attributed  to  me.  Anyway,  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  clever  parodist,  such 
as  we  have  here,  is  not  only  an  amusing  artist,  but  an 
extremely  useful  one,  and  that  his  subject,  though  he 
may  writhe  under  the  strokes  of  the  bladder,  may  be 


8  PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

roused  to  a  sense  of  his  many  weaknesses  and  to  a 
determination  to  do  better  work  in  the  future. 

MAURICE  HEWLETT  :  "  It  is  a  long  time  since 
I  did  the  sort  of  thing  parodied  by  your  client,  and  I 
fear  that  I  have  lost  touch  with  it  as  well  as  savour. 
To  be  perfectly  honest  I  don't  think  he  has  got  me, 
though  it  is  no  doubt  remarkable  that  he  should  do  it 
at  all.  Evidently  he  can  write  English  idiom  ;  but 
there  is  a  gulf  fixed  between  writing  like  Englishmen 
and  writing  like  a  particular  Englishman." 

ROBERT  HICHENS  :  "  I  have  read  '  The 
Blood  of  the  Call  '  and  been  very  much  entertained 
by  it.  It  is  astonishing  that  a  Frenchman  could 
have  written  it.  He  has  been  specially  skilful  in 
avoiding  all  gross  caricature.  The  end  is  delight- 
fully absurd  and  surprising.  I  hope  he  will  have  a 
great  success  with  his  book." 

E.  W.  HORNUNG  :  "  A  parody  with  a  punch  : 
full  of  shrewd  digs  and  condign  chaff." 

JEROME  K.  JEROME  :  "  It  is  so  long  ago  that  I 
wrote  anything  of  this  character  that  I  hardly  feel 
myself  to  be  a  judge  of  the  merit.  I  have  the  feeling 
that  I  am  looking  at  some  strange  drawing  of  myself 
as  a  child.  I  hope  you  will  understand." 

W.  W.  JACOBS  :  "  I  have  read  the  '  Yellow  Pipe  ' 
with  much  interest.  If  it  is  the  unaided  work  of  a 
Frenchman,  '  remarkable  '  is  the  only  word  to  apply 
to  it." 

W.  J.  LOCKE  :  "I  am  as  much  amused  by  the 
shrewd  way  in  which  another  has  seen  me  as  pleased 
by  the  parodist's  delicate  irony." 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE  9 

LEONARD  MERRICK  :  "  If  I  did  not  know  that 
I  had  never  seen  '  The  Defence  of  Art '  before  the 
publishers  sent  me  a  proof,  I  should  think  that  I  had 
written  some  of  it.  I  should  be  a  proud  man  if  I  could 
mimic  the  style  of  any  French  author  in  any  of  his 
contes  half  as  brilliantly  as  M.  Castier  has  mimicked 
mine  in  my  '  Tricotrin  '  tales.  But  the  style  of  my 
'  Tricotrin  '  tales  is  designedly  French,  and  M.  Castier 
is  a  Frenchman — I  wish  he  had  been  moved  to  imitate 
my  stories  of  English  life,  instead  ;  I  wish  I  needn't 
wait  till  the  book  is  published  to  read  all  the  other 
imitations  in  it.  '  The  Defence  of  Art '  makes  me 
intensely  curious.  M.  Castier  is  bilinguous  to  an 
extent  that  takes  one's  breath  away.  Some  seven 
or  eight  years  ago,  a  volume  of  French  verse,  capti- 
vating and  delicious,  reached  me  from  a  young  poet 
who  was  a  stranger  to  me  ;  and  the  lengthy  inscription, 
in  which  the  name  of  Tricotrin  figured  very  agreeably, 
was  written  in  such  supple  English  that  I  stared  at  it, 
astonished.  This  was  the  first  time  I  had  met  with 
any  of  M.  Castier 's  work.  M.  Castier  himself  I  have 
never  met  yet.  I  learn  that,  since  those  days,  he  has 
fought  and  suffered,  and  been  a  prisoner  in  Germany. 
I  am  happy  that  he  still  lives.  Recalling  the  qualities 
of  the  poems  that  he  sent  to  me,  I  think  he  will  do 
work  that  will  live,  too." 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS:  "Excellently  done  and 
quite  wonderful  I  think.  You  should  have  a  very 
entertaining  piece  of  work  and  may  its  success  rejoice 
the  amazing  author  and  yourself." 

WILLIAM  LE  QUEUX  :  "  I  have  read  a  number 
of  travesties  upon  my  plots  and  literary  style,  but 
the  story  '  The  Purple  Praline '  is  of  outstanding 
cleverness.  '  I  am,  alas  !  only  too  well  aware  of  my 


io  PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

own  faults  and  idiosyncracies  which  I  trust  the  public 
will  forgive.  Being,  like  the  writer,  of  French  birth, 
my  hope  always  is  that  my  critics  will  overlook  my 
ofttimes  inferior  English.  My  '  style  '  has  often  been 
derided,  I  know.  The  fact  is  that  my  younger  years 
were  spent  in  speaking  foreign  languages.  In  the 
sensational  story  the  plot  and  its  development  are  the 
chief  points  if  one  wishes — as  I  always  do — to  keep  the 
reader  interested  until  the  words  '  The  End.'  For 
my  slips  in  English  grammar  I  apologise — but  I  cannot 
help  it.  I  have  admired  the  story  '  The  Purple 
Praline  '  and  have  laughed  heartily  over  it.  My  cari- 
caturist, who  is  no  doubt  a  genius,  has  exactly  hit  off 
the  cosmopolitism  inherent  in  my  work  in  the  characters 
of  the  Cavaliere  Rabbitskini — who,  I  suppose,  wears 
rabbit  skin  upon  the  collar  of  his  coat,  which  so  many 
men  in  Italy  wear  in  winter — Nadejda  Rubbishska  of 
'  the  bejewelled  hand  ' — the  name  sounds  like  that  of 
a  street  in  Petrograd — and  of  the  haughty  Piotr 
Piklovitch  Swaggeroff — half-brother,  most  probably 
to  the  Baron  Twobobski  of  a  popular  revue.  And 
here  I  may  venture  to  betray  a  secret.  My  secretary, 
who  has  for  years  read  and  typed  all  that  I  have 
written,  and  who  had  in  her  hands  the  proofs  of  '  The 
Purple  Praline  '  before  I  did,  passed  it  across  to  me 
with  the  remark  :  '  This  is  exactly  like  your  work  ! 
It's  wonderful ! '  I  read  it,  and  agreed  with  her. 
Though  many  skits  upon  my  books  have  been  published 
in  English,  French,  Italian,  and  German  by  authors 
of  those  nationalities  '  The  Purple  Praline  '  is  the 
cleverest  and  most  humorous  of  them  all." 

G.  BERNARD  SHAW  :  This  is  by  miles  the  most 
accurate  parody  of  me  I  have  ever  seen,  and  the  only 
one  that  has  not  completely  missed  the  point  of  my 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE  n 

rather  tortured  stage  directions,  in  which  my  first 
rule  is  to  say  nothing  that  could  remind  the  reader  that 
what  is  being  described  is  a  stage  and  not  a  real  place." 

E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON  :  "  I  was  interested  to 
receive  the  proofs  of  your  French  author's  parody  of 
my  work  and  assume  that  in  asking  for  an  opinion  you 
cannot  expect  it  will  be  unbiassed  and  do  not  require 
it  to  be  anything  but  honest.  For  work  then  of  a 
Frenchman  writing  in  a  language  other  than  his  own, 
it  seems  to  me  a  very  creditable  performance  indeed, 
I  only  wish  I  could  write  as  well  in  French.  Parody 
however  seems  to  be  an  erroneous  description  of  it, 
as  it  seems  somewhat  lacking  in  wit  which  I  hold  to  be 
part  of  the  essence  of  the  spirit  of  parody." 

H.  A.  VACHELL  :  "I  have  read  the  parody  with 
great  interest  and  much  amusement.  It's  first  rate. 
If  the  others  are  up  to  sample,  I  congratulate  you  on 
finding  a  winner.  It  is  amazing  that  any  foreigner 
should  handle  our  language  so  well  and  naturally. 
Let  me  know  the  title,  please,  of  the  book  when  it 
appears,  as  I  should  like  to  have  a  copy.  Oddly 
enough,  '  The  Skipper  '  was  the  nickname  of  one  of 
the  best-known  house-masters  at  Harrow  in  my  time, 
old  Holmes.  Probably  your  young  Frenchman  doesn't 
know  this,  or  he  would  have  turned  it  to  account." 

H.  G.  WELLS  :  "  No  fear." 

C.  N.  WILLIAMSON  :  "  The  proofs  of  the  amus- 
ing parody  on  '  The  Lightning  Conductor '  and  '  The 
Motor  Maid  '  have  just  been  forwarded  from  France. 
We  both  think  the  parody  quite  good,  and  much  more 
like  us  than  we  should  ever  dare  to  try  and  be  like 
ourselves  !  Thank  you  for  sending  the  proofs,  which 
I  return  at  once,  as  I  fear  the  forwarding  has  caused 


12  PUBLISHER'S    NOTE 

delay.  Is  not  the  clever  French  author  of  the  parodies 
doing  his  readers  a  bad  turn  in  telling  them  to  look  for 
scenery  in  Baedeker  or  Joanne  ?  We  could  never  find 
any  there,  or  in  any  other  guide-book,  unless  you  can 
call  '  castle  on  right ;  mountain  on  left '  scenic  des- 
criptions. Personally,  I  think  for  scenery  he'd  better 
send  them  to  our  books  !  " 

HERBERT   JENKINS. 


FOREWORD 

ON  December  2nd,  1914,  I  had  the  misfortune  10 
be  captured  by  the  Germans  in  Alsace,  and  remained 
a  prisoner  till  after  the  Armistice  was  signed.  After 
a  few  uneventful  months  at  Heidelberg,  I  came  into 
collision  with  the  authorities,  and  remained  so  till 
the  end,  passing  through  a  series  of  imprisonments, 
court-martials,  more  imprisonments,  reprisals  and  the 
like  :  I  was  even  tried  once  (and  sentenced)  for  high 
treason.  My  greatest  solace  lay  in  reading — whenever 
I  was  allowed  books  ;  and  I  hit  upon  the  idea  of 
attempting  to  parody  some  of  the  authors  for  amuse- 
ment's sake.  When  next  in  a  period  of  comparative 
liberty,  I  read  some  of  my  stuff  to  some  English 
comrades,  who  were  kind  enough  to  express  their 
satisfaction,  and  to  advise  me  to  seek  publication — 
which  I  did. 

My  publisher  tells  me  I  should  explain  this  (which 
I  do  a  mon  corps  defendant),  also  that  I  am  a  French- 
man, and  that  not  so  much  as  a  comma  in  my  M.S. 
has  been  altered  since  it  left  my  hands.  He  no  doubt 
has  his  own  very  good  reasons  for  imposing  upon 
me  the  irksome  task  of  endeavouring  to  explain 


FOREWORD 

myself.  For  this  explanation  and  for  the  parodies 
themselves,  I  beg  to  tender  my  apologies  to  all 
concerned. 

J.  C. 

PARIS, 

July,  1919. 


CONTENTS 


ANSTEY,   F. 

BENNETT,  ARNOLD     . 
CAINE,   HALL      . 
CHESTERTON,   G.    K.    . 

CONRAD,  JOSEPH       V  • 

CORELLI,  MARIE  .    : 

DOYLE,   A.   CON  AN      * 

GALSWORTHY,   JOHN 
GARVICE,   CHARLES     . 
HAGGARD,   SIR  H.   RIDER 
HARLAND,   HENRY       . 
HEWLETT,   MAURICE  . 
HICHENS,   ROBERT 
HORNUNG,  E.   W. 
JACOBS,   W.    W. 
JAMES,   HENRY 
JEROME,   JEROME   K. 
KIPLING,    RUDYARD    . 

LE  QUEUX,  WILLIAM 
LOCKE,  W.   J.    . 


Page 
An  Officer's  Gefangenen-  168 

lager  in  Germany 
A  Tetralogy  (i.)  .  174 

The  Sinner  .  .  .  255 
What's  Maddening  about 

Man       .         .         -76 
Dam    'im — a    Reminis- 
cence    .         .         .  153 
The  Double  Soul    .         .  265 
The   Footprints   on   the 

Ceiling  .  .  .91 
Punishment  .  .  .  249 
The  Power  of  Love  .  283 
A  Tetralogy  (iv.)  .  195 

A  Tetralogy  (ii.)  .  180 

Lore  of  Narcissus  .  .  31 
The  Blood  of  the  Call  .  40 
Two  of  a  Trade  .  .  56 
The  Yellow  Pipe  .  .  82 
The  Outlook  .  .  241 
The  Stage  Student  .  234 
The  Song  of  the  Penny 

Whistle  .  .  -27 
The  Purple  Praline  .  272 
The  Heart  of  a  Bachelor  105 


CONTENTS. 


LONDON,   JACK 
MERRICK,  LEONARD  . 
MERRIMAN,  HENRY  SETON. 
NEWBOLT,  HENRY      . 
PHILLPOTTS,  EDEN     .  * 

SERVICE,   R.   W. 
SHAW,   G.   BERNARD 
STEVENSON,   ROBERT  LOUIS 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  ELISA- 
BETH AND  HER  GERMAN 
GARDEN  " 

THURSTON,  E.   TEMPLE 

VACHELL,    HORACE    ANNES- 

LEY       .  .  ,        f]ii 

WELLS,  H.   G.  . 
WILDE,  OSCAR 


Page 

The  Rival  Calls     .  .  222 

The  Defence  of  Art  •     17 

The  Reapers          .  .  204 

Admiral  Life          .  .  244 

A  Tetralogy  (iii.)  .  186 

Buck  Up                .  .  246 

The  Exploiters      .  .  226 

The  Motor  Car      .  .     37 

The  Lamp     .         .  .38 

Languages    .         .  .38 

Happy  Thought     .  .     38 

Books  .         .        .;;•  -39 

Susan  and  Her  German 
Sausage  .  •  .  .126 

The  Father  of  Beautiful 
Hope  .  -:'& 


WILLIAMSON, 

A.   M. 


C.      N.      AND 


The  Skipper 

The  Finding  of  Laura     . 
On  Murder  Considered  as 
a  Fine  Art      •:•.'.» 

The  First  Heaven 


62 

159 
116 

68 
133 


,        RATHER    LIKE 

LEONARD   MERRICK 

THE  DEFENCE  OF  ART 

TRICOTRIN,  the  celebrated  poet,  whose 
verses  every  publisher  in  Paris  had  rejected 
scores  of  times,  felt  moody  and  irritable 
as  he  climbed  up  the  familiar  stairs  to  his  garret 
in  the  Rue  des  Trois-Freres.  And  yet,  extra- 
ordinary as  it  may  appear,  his  anger  was  not 
due  to  his  being  out  of  funds :  had  he  not  just 
partaken  of  a  luxurious  dinner  at  the  "  Faisan 
d'Or,"  the  splendid  one  franc  fifty  dinner  that  makes 
half  Montmartre's  mouth  water  ?  Why,  had  he  not 
the  tremendous  sum  of  eighteen  francs  thirty  in  his 
bulging  trousers  pocket?, — the  remains  of  a  brand- 
new  louis  he  had  changed  at  the  aforesaid  "  Faisan 
d'Or  " — of  course,  he  knew  how  to  live,  is  it  not  ;  he 
had  flicked  the  delighted  garcon  the  royal  pourboire 
of  twenty  centimes.  .  .  .  No,  his  anger  was  not  due  to 
want  of  funds,  any  more  than  to  amorous  depression  : 
had  not  Josephine,  the  new  girl  behind  the  counter  of 
i 


i8  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Madame  Estelle's,  the  fashionable  modiste  in  the 
Rue  Lepic,  smiled  caressingly  on  him  that  very  after- 
noon ? 

Yet  it  is  a  fact  that  he  felt  cross ;  it  is  a  fact  that  he 
viciously  kicked  open  the  door  of  the  little  room  he 
shared  with  Pitou,  the  no  less  famed  composer ;  and 
that  he  flung  himself  on  to  his  bed,  at  the  immediate 
peril  of  a  complete  collapse  of  that  useful  article  of 
furniture,  which  lacked  a  couple  of  legs,  and  was  only 
kept  in  its  proper  position  by  means  of  a  pile  of  odd 
manuscripts  (de  Fronsac  was  wont  to  declare  that  these 
manuscripts  were  nothing  but  the  "  declined  with 
thanks  "  slips  which  Tricotrin  reaped  at  random  from 
all  possible  publishing  places). 

"  My  old  one,"  said  Pitou,  "  mind  the  furniture  ! 
And  kindly  avoid  disturbing  me  just  now  :  I  have 
hit  upon  a  fine  motif  for  my  Blue  Symphony.  It  will 
make  all  Paris  flock  to  Colonne's  !  " 

"  I  fish  myself  of  your  symphony  !  "  dejectedly 
replied  the  poet.  "  It  may  well  go  hang,  for  all  I  care 
— yes,  and  the  whole  of  Paris  may  go  hang  with  it !  " 

"  What  have  you  ?  "  The  composer's  query  was 
full  of  wonder.  "  You  are  not  hungry — you  told  me 
you  had  a  louis.  I  have  never  known  you  have  the 
toothache  ;  and  you  don't  look  like  a  man  with  the 
toothache.  Is  it — is  it  your  uncle  from  Lyons  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  not  my  uncle  from  Lyons,"  moaned 
Tricotrin,  slowly  moving  into  a  sitting  posture.  "  It 
is  that  confounded  pig  of  Delorme." 

"  Delorme,  the  editor  of  La  Gazette  ?  "  broke  in 
Pitou,  hardly  believing  his  ears. 

"  Himself." 

"  My  friend,  I  must  compliment  you  on  your 
connections  !  Why,  I  myself  would  not  dare  even  to 
submit  my  Sunshine  Nocturne  to  Delorme  !  " 


LEONARD  MERRICK  19 

"  Of  course,  you  fool,  La  Gazette  doesn't  publish 
music  !  But  Delorme  is  the  most  heartless  camel  I 
ever  came  across." 

"  What  did  he  do  ?    Reject  a  poem  ?  " 
"  If  that  were  all,  I  shouldn't  be  so  angry  about 
him,"  petulantly  replied  Tricotrin.     "  No,  he  actually 
played  a  fool's  joke  on  me — he  offered  himself  my 
head — the  cow  !  " 

"  Tell  me  all,"  begged  the  composer ;  "  your 
cruel  story  may  inspire  me  with  a  heartrending  end 
for  my  new  opera." 

Thus  adjured,  Tricotrin  related  his  misadventure  : 
"  Imagine  to  yourself,  my  friend,  that  this  very 
morning,  after  you  had  gone  out,  a  messenger  boy 
brought  me  a  petit  bleu  from  the  great  Delorme  him- 
self !  I  could  hardly  believe  my  own  eyes — but  there 
was  the  blue  envelope,  and  inside  it,  staring  me  in  the 
face,  the  yellow  note-paper  with  the  heading  of 
La  Gazette  \  Yes,  rny  friend,  the  editor — the  pig — 
did  me  the  honour  of  begging  me  to  call  upon  him 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — he  would  then 
be  happy  to  give  me  some  information  concerning 
my  poem,  "  The  Deathless  Motor-Car, "  in  fifteen 
cantos,  which  I  had  been  kind  enough  to  submit  to 
La  Gazette  .  .  .  Yes,  I  had  sent  them  my  "  Deathless 
Motor-Car  "  ;  it  had  been  declined  by  all  the  so-called 
'  literary  '  periodicals — more  fools  they  ! — and  I  had 
to  send  it  somewhere.  .  .  .  Well,  here  I  was  then, 
this  morning,  my  old  one,  on  the  verge  of  celebrity. 
My  verse  was  going  to  appear  in  the  largest  Paris 
halfpenny  paper  !  Picture  to  yourself  my  triumph  ! 
I  was  great,  I  was  renowned  !  " 

"  Go  on,"  growled  Pitou,  "  I  want  to  hear  the  end !  " 

"  Well,  naturally  I  called  at  the  Gazette  offices — 

you  know,  near  that  temple  of  pecuniary  gods,  the 


20  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Bourse.  Equally  naturally,  I  had  dressed  as  smartly 
as  a  poet  should  be  dressed  :  I  had  Lajeunie's  topper, 
Flamant's  gloves,  and  Sanquereau's  black  tie.  .  .  . 
Verlaine  himself  could  not  have  looked  more  artistic 
than  I,  when  I  was  ushered  into  Delorme's  private 
office.  ...  It  was  marked  private  on  the  door,  at  any 
rate,  although  there  were  about  half  a  dozen  other 
men"  lounging  round  Delorme's  desk.  .  .  .  Imagine 
my  joy,  my  dear  one,  when  I  recognised  these  men  as 
the  editors  of  important  papers.  Yes,  there  was 
Lempereur,  of  the  Frangais,  and  Saulanne,  of  Le 
Demi-Mot,  and  Dulac,  of  La  Folie  Parisienne — and 
two  or  three  equally  chic  !  My  friend,  I  felt  my 
fortune  was  made.  .  .  .  Here  is  my  friend  Delorme, 
thought  I,  who  wishes  to  set  a  crown  upon  my  budding 
reputation,  by  introducing  me  to  his  colleagues— 
I  am  to  enjoy  a  sort  of  Roman  triumph  before.  ..." 

"  Never  mind  the  triumph,"  heartlessly  broke  in 
the  composer,  "  come  on  to  the  fall." 

"  My  friend,  I  did  fall— I  fell  from  high  !  .  .  . 
Delorme  rose  and  picked  up  a  large  foolscap  manu- 
script from  his  desk — my  '  Deathless  Motor-Car !  ' 
He  walked  across  to  the  other  editors,  and  just  as  I 
was  already  hearing  his  words  of  praise  in  my  mind's 
ears,  he  suddenly  burst  out :  '  Yes,  that's  the  fool, 
gentlemen,  who  dares  waste  some  of  my  time,  with  his 
rhymed  trash.'  .  .  .  He  actually  said  rhymed  trash, 
the  brute  !  .  .  .  'I  wished  you  to  see  him  for  yourself, 
so  that  you  might  all  know  M.  Gustave  Tricotrin  for 
the  future,  and  be  ready,  if  necessary,  to  place  his 
productions  in  their  only  proper  sphere.'  .  .  .  And 
he  had  the  '  culot '  to  chuck  my  poem  into  his  waste- 
paper  basket — the  beast !  The  others  laughed — 
the  pigs  !  Oh,  my  friend,  how  sad  I  felt — -how  I  pitied 
these  brutes  who  could  not  be  stirred  by  the  immortal 


LEONARD  MERRICK  21 

beauties  of  my  verses  !  .  .  .  Still,  I  did  not  break 
down — no,  Gustave  Tricotrin  knows  how  to  be  strong 
in  the  hour  of  need  ;  I  snatched  my  stanzas  from 
their  ignoble  resting-place,  flung  these  camels  a 
scathing  glance,  and  marched  out  of  the  house  without 
honouring  them  with  a  single  word.  My  silence  was 
more  eloquent  than  their  abuse  :  my  friend,  I  felt  as 
a  lion-tarner  leaving  a  cage  of  wild  beasts  !  .  .  .  But 
when  I  was  outside,  sadness  began  to  fall  upon  me  :  my 
dream  was  gone,  my  prospects  ruined,  my  triumph — 
exploded  !  I  wandered  wearily  through  some  streets — 
but  nothing  can  console  me — neither  the  bustle  and 
life  of  the  city,  nor  the  calm  of  Montmartre,  nor 
the  wiles  of  Josephine,  nor  the  wine  of  '  Le  Faisan 
d'Or.'  .  .  .  My  friend,  I  thirst  for  revenge — I  will 
and  shall  pay  out  that  pig  of  Delorme  !  Not  till  then 
will  I  be  able  to  write  another  verse  !  " 

After  this  outburst,  the  young  poet  heaved  a  deep 
sigh,  and  fell  back  at  full  length  on  the  bed,  thereby 
causing  a  three-legged  bottomless  chair  to  fall  with 
a  clatter  that  would  no  doubt  have  made  an  excellent 
thunder  effect  at  the  little  Theatre  Montmartre  close 
by,  but  which  the  luckless  composer  found  fatal  to  the 
inspiration  of  his  symphony.  Indeed,  all  thought  of  his 
own  art  had  by  now  left  Pitou,  who  began  to  smart 
at  the  slight  done  to  Art  in  general,  in  the  person  of 
his  unhappy  friend.  Are  not  all  artists  brothers  ? 
A  poet,  a  composer — he  who  insults  the  one  does 
an  injury  to  the  other,  and  it  is  fitting  that  he  should 
be  subject  to  their  united  wrath.  .  .  . 

"  Say  then,"  muttered  Pitou,  after  a  heavy  silence, 
"  if  Goujaud  and  I  were  to  call  upon  this  pig  of  an 
editor,  and  to  make  a  suitable  oppointment  for  a 
meeting  at  the  Pare  des  Princes  ?  Goujaud  has  a 
pair  of  swords,  and  he  would.  .  .  .  ' 


22  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  No,"  listlessly  muttered  the  poet,  "I  do  not 
commit  myself  with  merchants  !  He  is  but  a  vendor 
of  blackened  paper — I  am  an  immortal  singer  :  my 
dear  one,  a  god  may  not  thrash  a  clown  !  " 

"  And  yet,"  muttered  Pitou,  "  a  god  condescended 
to  thrash  a  composer ;  did  not  a  certain  Apollo  ..." 

"  My  old  one,  you  do  him  too  great  an  honour 
by  comparing  him  to  Marsyas.  Marsyas  could  sing 
— he  can  but  croak.  .  .  Besides,  he  has  not  only 
made  me  angry,  he  has  offered  himself  my  head.  .  . 
Therefore,  there  is  but  one  thing  for  me  to  do  :  to 
offer  myself  his  !  " 

"  Good!  '  exclaimed  the  composer,  "  but  how  ?  " 

The  two  young  men  sat  up  late  that  night,  dis- 
cussing the  weighty  problem.  By  a  stroke  of  good 
luck,  Pitou  discovered  a  bottle  under  his  bed — a 
bottle  of  "  Bourgogne  Supe*rieur,"  not  quite  empty,  a 
relic,  no  doubt,  of  the  marriage  banquet  of  little 
Lisette  and  Touquet,  the  costumier  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  des  Martyrs.  The  bottle  had  cost  as  much 
as  one  franc  twenty — perhaps  even  more— and  the 
liquid  ruby  seemed  to  set  Tricotrin's  head  afire. 
When  he  did  retire  to  rest  at  last  the  moodiness  had 
completely  left  him,  and  Pitou  was  as  joyful  as  when 
he  had  composed  his  immortal  comic  song,  "  Partant 
pour  le  Moulin,"  for  that  fickle  goddess  Paulette 
Fleury.  .  .  .  Had  they  not  their  plan,  the  subtle  plan 
by  which  they  would  fool  the  great  Delorme,  and  show 
him  that  a  vile  merchant  may  not  in  vain  deride  Art 
and  her  noble  priests  ?  Ha  !  He  had  dared  publicly 
to  raise  a  laugh  at  Tricotrin  ?  Well,  now  Tricotrin 
and  Pitou  were  going  to  get  all  Paris  to  laugh  at  him, 
Delorme — the  pig  ! 

...  It  was  just  at  that  time — some  days  later,  to  be 
quite  correct — that  some  of  the  Paris  papers  began 


LEONARD  MERRICK  23 

to  publish  eulogies  of  the  great  Republican,  Arsene 
Lepeltier,  the  centenary  of  whose  birth  it  was  fitting 
to  celebrate  next  month.  Naturally,  La  Gazette  took 
up  the  whole  thing  as  these  celebrations  deserve  to 
be  taken  up — in  fact,  La  Gazette  was  the  first  paper 
to  dwell  upon  the  merits  of  the  late  Arsene  Lepeltier, 
Gambetta's  friend,  one  of  the  promoters  of  the  Re- 
public, one  of  its  most  distinguished  orators  and 
statesmen,  one  of  France's  most  brilliant  sons,  the 
man  who.  .  .  .  etc.,  etc.  The  columns  of  La  Gazette 
were  full  of  information  about  the  great  Arsene  Le- 
peltier, and  the  minor  papers,  needless  to  say,  largely 
preyed  upon  their  larger  brothers,  so  that,  within 
very  few  days,  all  Paris  was  talking  of  the  projected 
centenary  celebration — why,  even  of  the  statue  by 
none  less  than  Rodin,  which  was  to  bear  testimony 
throughout  eternity  to  the  virtues  of  the  deceased.  .  . 
Of  course,  Arsene  Lepeltier  is  not  a  name  that  was 
present  to  everybody's  mind  ;  but  then,  no  more  are 
Jules  Ferry,  or  Ferdinand  Fabre,  or  Scheurer-Kestner, 
or  many  more,  who  all  have  their  statues  amid  the 
majestic  Tuileries,  or  the  shady  Luxembourg,  and  round 
whom,  now,  a  little  Jacqueline  is  playing  at  puss-in- 
the-corner,  or  a  tiny  citizen-to-be  is  spinning  a  top, 
all  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  great  shadow  that 
looms  above  them.  Anyhow,  it  is  a  fact  that  all  Paris 
was  talking  of  Arsene  Lepeltier  and  his  manifold 
virtues,  and  that  the  Government,  at  the  urgent  appeal 
of  La  Gazette,  had  promised  to  consider  the  erection 
of  the  memorial  in  the  Cour  Carree  of  the  Louvre — 
quite  near  those  of  two  other  apostles  of  political 
liberty  :  Gambetta  and  Lafayette. 

And  then,  just  when  Arsene  Lepeltier's  popularity 
was  its  at  highest,  the  unforeseen  occurred.  ...  A 
tiny  little  literary  review,  "  L'Ombre  de  la  Butte," 
practically  unknown  till  then,  published  a  long  article 


24  RATHER  LIKE.... 

by  Lajeunie,  the  novelist,  in  which  certain  editors 
of  leading  "  dailies  "  were  advised  to  look  up  their 
information  in  the  Larousse  —  especially  biographical 
information — in  order  to  avoid  possible  mistakes,  or 
even  (it  was  hinted)  hoaxes  on  a  large  scale.  It 
began  to  dawn  upon  some  Parisians  (perhaps  those 
who,  at  the  instigation  of  some  friend  or  other,  had 
met  one  night  at  the  Lune  Rousse  or  the  Quat'-z-Arts, 
and  read  the  article  in  L' Ombre  de  la  Butte)  that  they 
had,  indeed,  never  heard  of  Arsene  Lepeltier  or  of  his 
career.  A  few  were  dismayed  to  discover,  upon 
careful  investigation,  that  the  omniscient  Larousse, 
as  well  as  the  Grande  Encyclopedic,  shared  their 
ignorance  on  this  head. 

The  thing  was  talked  of ;  it  began  to  spread,  down 
the  Rue  des  Martyrs  and  the  Rue  Pigalle,  to  the 
Opera,  right  down  to  the  Bourse,  all  along  the  Boule- 
vards, across  the  Seine,  even.  .  .  .  The  Quartier 
Latin  laughed  loudest,  of  course  :  from  the  Soufflet  to 
Lipp's,  at  Saint-Germain-des-Pres — from  the  Place 
Saint-Michel  to  the  Gare  Montparnasse,  everybody 
chuckled,  grinned,  or  burst  out  laughing.  Then  a 
biting — and  witty — dirge  appeared  in  L' Ombre  de  la 
Butte  above  the  name  of  Gustave  Tricotrin — and 
some  editors  swore,  and  some  bullied  their  clerks, 
but  Delorme  raged,  because  he  himself,  in  La  Gazette, 
had  started  the  whole  Arsene  Lepeltier  business,  on 
advice  received.  .  .  .  How  the  devil  had  he  received 
it  ?  ...  Why,  yes,  now  he  remembered.  ...  It 
was  the  day  after  he  had  had  his  roaring  joke  on  that 
fool  who  called  himself  a  poet,  Tricotrin — the  very 
day  after.  .  .  .  What  if  .  .  .  ?  No,  impossible !  .  .  . 
And  yet.  .  . 

It  will  perhaps  be  best  to  let  Pitou  himself  explain 
the  operation  of  the  grand  plan  which,  after  all,  did 


LEONARD  MERRICK  25 

no  great  harm,  and  was  the  means  of — but  you  shall 
see  what  it  was  the  means  of  ! 

"  Yes,  my  old  one,"  said  Pitou  some  time  after, 
to  one  of  his  colleagues  in  Art,  "  the  whole  idea  was 
worthy  of  us  :  when  we  went  to  bed  that  night,  we  had 
resolved  upon  a  triumphal  revenge,  the  likes  of  which 
Paris  had  never  seen.  .  .  .  Who  thought  of  it  ? — 
My  dear  one,  I  credited  you  with  enough  sense^to 
find  that  out  by  yourself — and  besides,  my  well- 
known  modesty  prevents  my  answering  that  question 
...  I  hope  I  make  myself  understood  ?  .  .  .  Well, 
the  next  day  I  went  to  see  my  old  copain  de  Fronsac 
.-  „  -.  Yes,  he  was  rather  sore  against  me  after  ...  a 
trick  ?  No,  my  friend — only  a  brilliant  piece  of 
information  I  gave  him,  about  a  very  sweet  young 
dancer  .  .  .  Yes,  de  Fronsac  is  dramatic  critic  to 
La  Voix  Parisienne  .  .  .  Well,  I  promised  to  put 
him  on  to  another  brilliant  bit  of  copy,  on  condition 
that  he  and  I — and  Dubois,  the  editor  of  La  Soiree, 
whom  he  knows  quite  intimately — should  go  and 
discuss  the  matter  over  a  bock,  at  the  Cafi  de  la 
Lune,  at  the  hour  of  the  aperitif.  .  .  .  Why  the 
Cafe  de  la  Lune  ?  My  poor  friend,  you  are  no  Mac- 
chiavelli !  Figure  to  yourself,  then,  if  I  must  explain 
everything,  that  this  pig  of  Delorme  is  in  the  habit 
of  taking  his  aperitif  at  La  Lune,  every  evening.  .  .  . 
Oh,  of  course,  he  makes  quite  a  lot  of  money  :  he 
can  sip  his  vermouth  every  evening — the  camel !  .  .  . 
Well,  when  we  arrived  at  La  Lune,  de  Fronsac,  Dubois 
and  I,  there  was  Delorme,  calmly  absorbing  his  usual 
brand  of  poison,  and  talking  politics  to  some  other 
fool  of  an  editor.  We  sat  down  at  the  table  next  to 
his,  and  .  .  .  yes,  de  Fronsac  did  the  thing  hand- 
somely, my  old  one  :  he  paid  me  a  demi — and  the 
demis  cost  seventy-five  centimes  at  La  Lune.  .  .  . 
Well,  we  talked  of  different  things,  and  I  began  to 


26  RATHER  LIKE.... 

let  out  a  hint  or  two  about  Gambetta,  and  Thiers, 
and  some  of  their  friends.  .  .  I  dropped  the  name 
of  Ars6ne  Lepeltier.  .  .  .  My  friend,  you  are  not  a 
Republican?  .  .  .  Anyway,  Dubois'  paper  is  . 
and  so  is  La  Gazette,  although,  as  you  know,  there  is  a 
standing  quarrel  between  the  two  .  .  .  Dubois  began 
to  take  up  the  hint  ...  I  could  see  Delorme  had 
overheard  some  of  our  remarks  ;  he  called  for  ink 
and  paper — and  I  went  on  ...  Dubois  became  more 
enthusiastic,  and  said  he  would  write  a  leader  about 
Lepeltier  on  the  very  next  day  .  .  .Yes,  and  all  the 
time,  Delorme —  the  pig  ! — was  scribbling  away  at 
break-wrist  speed  !  .  .  .  My  friend,  how  I  laughed  in 
my  beard — I  am  clean-shaven,  you  say  ? — Well,  it  is 
but  a  figure  of  speech,  such  as  we  artists  may  use  as 
we  please.  ...  As  I  was  saying,  how  I  laughed  in  my 
beard,  when  I  saw  Delorme  at  last  put  his  manuscript 
into  an  envelope,  bellow  to  a  chasseur  to  despatch 
it  to  his  office  without  delay,  and  let  out  a  sigh  of 
contentment  as  his  gaze  rested  for  an  instant,  with  a 
malicious  twinkle,  on  his  rival  Dubois,  who  was 
waiting  till  the  next  day  !  .  .  .  My  dear  one,  I  felt 
like  doing  a  gentle  tango — or  even  a  turkey-trot — 
with  the  gerant  of  the  cafe — but  I  was  strong  enough 
to  conquer  my  impulse  :  what  will  you  ?  Art  has 
her  dictates  !  .  .  .  Well,  that  is  all.  .  .  .  The  rest 
came  of  its  own  accord  .  .  .  Lajeunie  made  a  hit, 
and  so  did  Tricotrin  .  .  .  And  I  ?  My  friend,  I 
have  earned  the  gratitude  of  my  copain  and  of  Art — 
and  yes,  Gustave  and  I  have  made  a  song  about  it, 
which  has  rather  caught  on  at  the  Scala.  .  .  .  You 
ask  whether  we  are  rich  ?  .  .  .  Well,  that  would 
hardly  be  the  word  for  it — but  if  you  are  in  need  of  a 
louis,  my  old  one  ?  Yes  ?  .  .  .  Well,  here  you  are, 
then  ;  take  it,  with  the  unsolicited  compliments  of 
Delorme — that  pig  of  Delorme  !  " 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  27 


II 

RUDYARD   KIPLING 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  PENNY  WHISTLE 

THEY  dursn't  give  a  child  a  boomerang — 
A  shot-gun  plays  no  end  of  devilish  pranks — 
The  high-lalutin'  toys,  they  may  go  hang, 
The  patent,  sickening  toys  that  earn  no  thanks — 
I'm  blest  by  every  kid  that  laughs  or  wails, 
I'm  ready  to  be  lost  and  knocked  about, 
I'm  never  broke  or  tired, — when  all  else  fails, 
You  should  hear  me  put  an  end  to  Tommy's  shout ! 

With  my  "  speedy- wheedy-wheedy-wheedy-whish  !  " 
You  should  watch  me  raise  the  hair  upon  your  head, 
Just  as  Tommy,  glad  at  howling  at  his  wish, 
Gets  a  licking  from  his  dad,  and  crawls  to  bed  ! 

In  the  nurs'ry's  quiet  depth,  behind  the  nurse, 
When  Tommy's  sick  at  heart  and  has  the  blues, 
You  can  hear  me  none  the  less — I'm  none  the  worse 
For  his  thrashing,  or  his  pater's  loud  abuse  ; 
You  can  hear  me  letting  forth  from  out  his  heart 
The  bitterness  that  chokes  a  six-year-old, 
And  the  joy  and  boyish  hope  that  won't  depart, 
And  the  "  No,  I  shan't,  /  shan't  do  what  I'm  told  !  " 


28  RATHER  LIKE.... 

With  my  "  whizy-jizy-jizy-jizy-jee  !  " 

In  the  greasy,  dirty,  gaunt,  foul-living  slum, 

I'm  the  voice  of  squalid  nippers,  mixed  among  the 

smell  of  kippers, 
And  the  only  voice  from  heaven  in  the  hum  ! 

In  the  filthy,  lurid  court,  where  man  and  wife 
Leave  behind  an  evil  reek  of  beer  and  gin, 
In  the  netherworld  of  bitterness  and  strife, 
I  alone  am  pure  and  clean,  beside  the  din  ! 
I'm  the  voice  of  dirty  bairns  who  want  to  live. 
And  I  stand  for  their  desire  untarnished,  whole — 
I'm  the  only  thing  they  love  and  couldn't  give, 
I'm  the  echo  bursting  forth  from  out  their  soul ! 

Yea,  my  "  Hity-tity-tity-tity-hy  !  " 

Is  the  purest,  whitest  call  amid  the  dirt ; 

I'm  the  dazzling,  shining,  flicker  that  is  not  yet 

drowned  in  liquor, 
I'm  the  song  of  life  unsoiled,  unspoiled,  unhurt ! 

When  the  traffic  roars  and  surges  through  the  town, 
'Mid  the  bustle  and  the  shouts  of  swearing  men — 
With  the  motor-'buses  rushing  up  and  down, 
And  the  horses  battling  on  right  through  the  den — 
When  the  good  old  stoutish  lady'd  like  to  cross, 
And  she  cringes,  and  she  gasps,  and  cannot  dare, 
When  she  tries,  and  turns,  and  trots,  all  at  a  loss — 
Then  my  time  has  come  to  help — for  I  am  there ! 

With  my  "  Hooty-tooty-tooty-tooty-too  !  " 
7  stop  the  howling  bedlam  for  the  dame — 
I'm  the  trumpet  of  the  Squire  that  shall  pull  her  from 

the  mire, 
I'm  the  voice  that  quells  disorder,  blows,  and  shame  ! 


RUDYARD   KIPLING  29 

When  you've  had  your  evening's  talk,  your  last,  last 

drink, 

And  you're  passing  through  the  hall  of  your  old  club — 
When  your  wife  has  heard  the  play,  and  wants  to 

think, 

And  you  can't  afford  a  motor  (there's  the  rub  !), — 
When  you're  fed  up  with  the  party,  and  the  ball, 
And  you  manage  to  be  left  alone — and  quit — 
When  you're  rushing,  or  you're  sneaking,  through  the 

hall, 
Don't  I  help  you  with  my  call  and  with  my  grit  ? 


With  my  "  Ritty-titty-titty-titty-whee  !  " 

I'm  the  magnet  for  the  cab  that  drives  you  back, 

I'm  the  magic  wand  of  wealth,  I'm  the  call  that  gives 

by  stealth 
All  the  luxury  of  thousands  that  you  lack  ! 


In  the  far-off  field  of  death  where  men  will  roam, 
'Mid  the  trenches'  zig-zag  line,  and  clinging  mud, 
When  no  one  dares  to  think  of  those  at  home, 
And  a  shot  rings  now  and  then — 'mid  trickling  blood- 
In  the  cold,  or  in  the  blazing,  red-hot  sun, 
In  the  torture-rack  of  this  worst  human  hell — 
I  just  rally  'em  to  work  that's  to  be  done — 
I  call  'em  on — by  God,  I  do  it  well ! 


With  my  "  Ready-steady-steady-steady-rush  !  " 

You  can  see  'em  run,  and  crawl,  and  gasp  for  breath — 

Yea,  I  make  'em  look  alive — make  'em  men,  to  dare, 

and  strive — 
I'm  the  war-march,  charging  on,  right  on,  to  Death  ! 


30  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Let  the  full-blown  blast  of  bands  resound  on  high, 
With  their  brass,  and  with  their  wood-wind,  and  their 

string  : 
They  are  changing — they  were  born — and  they  must 

die, 
They  are  faked,  and    forged,  and   fed — they're    not 

the  thing. 

No,  whatever  be  their  time,  their  ringing  strain, 
Be  it  rag-time,  boiling-hot,  or  Wagner's  song, 
There  is  something  cramped  and  stift  in  their  refrain, 
There  is  something — you  can  feel  it — that  is  wrong  ! 

But  my  "  Hya-heea-hya-heea-whop  !  " 

Is  the  human  cry,  from  cradles  unto  graves — 

From  young  lips  that  don't  yet  ken,  to  the  hearts  of 

dying  men, 
I'm  the  deathless  cry  of  children  and  of  braves  ! 


MAURICE  HEWLETT  31 


III 

MAURICE   HEWLETT 

LORE   OF  NARCISSUS 

THAT  Narcissus,  nimble-bodied  and  fair-faced  as 
were  the  gods  of  old,  aye,  and  the  men  the 
which  builded  them  in  their  gossamer-realm 
of  chanting  myth — that  Narcissus,  I  say,  promptly  fell 
in  love  with  his  own  beauty  the  very  first  time  he 
was  confronted  with  it,  no  simple-minded  scholar  is 
prepared  to  deny.  Those  were  the  golden  days, 
the  which  have  fled,  the  which  have  fled, — and 
the  face  of  our  sylvan  pools  reflects  no  more 
that  of  a  beauteous  and  unsophisticated  youth 
who  may  be  enamoured  of  his  own  rippling  image. 
And  the  simple-minded  scholar  himself,  however 
innocent  his  thoughts,  however  young  he  may 
have  kept  his  threescore  year  old  imagination  ever 
bubbling  over  with  visions  of  fleeting  nymphs,  while 
his  deafened  ears  ring  forever  with  the  sweet  sound 
of  the  fond  kisses  stolen  from  their  nimble  lips  by 
some  laughing  faun,  aye,  even  by  old  Pan  himself — 
our  simple-minded  scholar,  I  say,  cannot  conjure  up 
to  his  dear  old  bespectacled  eyes  the  picture  of  a 
mediaeval  Narcissus,  a  Narcissus  neither  young,  nimble 


32  RATHER  LIKE.... 

nor  fair.  ...  A  Narcissus  neither  young,  nimble, 
nor  fair  ?  Aye,  I  hear  ye  start,  O  simple-minded 
scholar  :  a  Narcissus  cannot  be  old,  stiff  or  plain  ; 
is  he  not  the  living  incarnation  of  all  that  beauty 
the  which  has  fled  ?  .  .  Maybe — maybe ;  who 
can  tell  ?  But  be  all  this  as  it  may,  hear  ye  the  tale 
of  our  mediaeval  Narcissus,  middle-aged  at  best, 
supple  at  most,  and  hardly  even  comely — our  mediaeval 
Narcissus,  I  say,  who,  if  he  did  not  fall  a  captive  to 
his  own  charms,  fell  a  slave — aye,  and  a  dead  slave 
at  that — to  his  own  mirrored  likeness — as  our  hero 
of  bygone  days  and  beauty. 

In  the  year  1367 — pray  remark  that  this  date  may 
be  of  ominous  import  to  my  hero  (for  do  not  its  figures 
call  forth  the  total  of  17  ?)  an  import  the  which  our 
modern  science  is  apt  to  ignore — to  ignore  or  to  laugh 
at — in  the  year  1367,  I  say,  I  find  my  Narcissus — 
one  Paolo  Testadoro — calmly  seated  in  an  unpreten- 
tious tavern  behind  the  Merceria,  just  oft  Rialto,  in 
the  most  ducal  and  noble  city  of  Venice.  There  he 
sits,  middle-aged  at  best :  aye,  forty-five  summers,  no 
doubt,  have  burned  his  ruddy  face  and  strewn  the 
slanting  forehead  with  endless  creases  and  wrinkles 
deeply  dug  ;  there  he  sits,  nimble  no  longer,  supple 
at  most :  for  a  soldier  cannot  afford  to  stiffen  right 
away,  and  must,  if  he  would  remain  alive,  preserve 
some  drops  of  oil  in  his  joints,  some  bands  of  steel  in 
his  wrists,  and  a  lively  play  of  eye  and  ear  ;  there  he 
sits,  hardly  even  comely — hardly  even  comely.  Scarred, 
wrinkled,  and  crimson,  moustachios  to  the  sky,  with 
a  great  grey  cloak,  well  worn,  well  torn,  covering 
a  seedy  leather  jerkin  that  has  seen  better  days ; 
one  arm  crooked  towards  his  face,  the  other  fondling 
the  long  rapier  that  dangles  at  his  side  :  his  large 
felt  hat  propped  negligently  on  the  tavern  table ; 


MAURICE  HEWLETT  33 

wistful,  disconsolate,  with  never  a  thought  of  mirth 
that  a  fiasco  of  scarlet  ruby  juice  can  light ;  there  he 
sits,  brooding  over  his  sorrowful  plight.  It  is  still 
light — still  Apollo  has  not  drawn  his  golden  horses 
behind  the  wall  of  night — and,  but  for  Testadoro, 
the  tavern  is  empty,  empty  even,  for  the  now,  of  the 
girl  who  had  brought  him  his  flagon  "  of  thy  land- 
lord's best,  thou  blue-eyed  madonna."  The  girl  was 
comely,  had  worn  a  deep  blush  when  he  so  fervently 
addressed  her — and  had  run  out  as  soon  as  she  had 
discharged  her  duty.  She  had  tun  out  away  from 
him,  from  him,  Paolo  Testadoro,  late  of  Padua,  for- 
merly of  Naples,  than  whom  none  had  been  more 
dearly — aye,  and  more  often, — loved.  Could  this 
slip  of  a  girl  actually  disdain  him  of  the  conquering 
moustachios  and  feathered  felt  ?  No,  by  Cock,  she 
could  not — and  he  was  going  to  prove  it ! 

He  rose  from  his  stool — where  he  had  been  squat- 
ting on  his  hams — and  was  suddenly  confronted  with 
a  weather-beaten  and  wrinkled  cavalier,  the  sure 
offspring  of  a  long,  wicked,  and  very  noble  line  of 
condottieri,  who  wore  a  grey  cloak,  like  his  own,  and 
a  frown  the  like  of  his.  They  say  that  a  man  fore- 
warned is  forearmed,  for  that  he  may  not  then  be 
taken  unawares ;  and  it  must  then  follow  that  if 
you  warn  not  a  man,  he  is  apt  either  to  fall  behind  in 
an  emergency,  or  to  rush  hot-headed  into  the  fray. 
Testadoro,  I  say,  rising  from  his  seat,  saw  a  soldier 
suddenly  emerge  from  out  the  solitude  he  had  thought 
he  was  in— -and  the  blood  came  surging  to  his  ready 
brain.  "  By  Cock,"  he  thought,  "  yon  is  the  scare- 
crow who  has  frightened  away  the  wench.  And  I 
thought  myself  alone  in  this  thieves'  den  of  a  tavern ! 
If  that  swelled-out  bladder  of  a  greasy  old  swash- 
buckler believe  he  may  play  the  rival  to  the  wench 

2 


34  RATHER  LIKE.... 

I  have  wooed — aye,  and  won — it  is  time  to  cut  him 
into  strips,  by  Cock  ! " 

His  face  was  bent  on  wearing  a  deeper  crimson 
still ;  not  wine  gives  a  visage  that  deep  and  daring 
flush,  the  which  is  the  lawful  fruit  of  anger,  hate  and 
speed.  Nor  did  he  notice  that  the  same  ominous 
crimson  wave  had  spread  over  the  countenance  of 
the  man  now  confronting  him — his  rival,  by  Cock  ! 
Aye,  that  was  the  one  and  only  thought  that  weighed 
upon  his  massive  head,  and  while  he  stood  looking 
at  his  rival's  age-worn  cloak,  he  let  out  his  words 
from  the  rancour  of  his  heart.  "  Heigho,  my  friend, 
thinkest  thou  to  oust  me  in  war  or  love  ?  I  was 
old  in  both  ere  thou  leftest  thy  swaddling  clout. 
Thou  wast  not  yet  weaned,  when  I  was  deep  in  fire 
and  in  wenches'  kisses.  Thrice  pierced  through  the 
heart,  and  ten  times  left  for  dead,  with  my  record 
of  three  hundred  notches  on  my  trusty  rapier — aye, 
by  Cock,  a  notch  for  a  life — thou  thinkest  not  to 
startle  me,  thou  pasty-faced  son  of  a  mendicant 
friar,  thou  bepaunched  and  tallow-eyed  powerless 
ruffian  ?  Get  thee  out  of  this  before  I  dispatch  thee 
to  hell,  by  Cock — and  leave  me  to  mine  own  business, 
while  thou  mindest  thine  among  the  thieves  and 
other  gallows'  birds,  thy  brethren  !  " 

Not  an  answer  pealed  to  his  ready  ears  ;  after 
this  outburst,  the  figure  opposite  him  dared  take 
up  a  waiting  pose,  as  if  it  too  were  listening  for  an 
answer,  the  which  came  not.  "  By  Cock,"  roared 
Testadoro,  "  thou  art  no  more  than  a  bladder,  I  see, 
for  that  thou  canst  not  even  give  a  reply  to  a  civil 
speech  !  Well,  I  consider  thee  carrion  at  this  silence  ; 
and  thou  shalt  not  fail  to  descend  right  swiftly  to 
the  other  old  Charion  and  his  sticks.  Now  then, 
have  at  thee,  hell-bird  ! " 


MAURICE  HEWLETT  35 

Scowling  at  his  enemy,  our  hero  let  his  thoughts 
forage  deep  into  the  past,  for  as  soon  as  the  haze  swept 
away  from  golden  memory,  there  were  before  him  feats 
of  arms,  feats  of  arms — aye,  and  feats  of  love  galore — 
the  which  no  seedy  youth  of  these  days,  however 
brave  of  heart  and  hand,  could  ever  have  dreamed 
in  his  most  sanguine  dreams  .  .  .  And  now,  of  what 
avail  was  all  this  brilliant  past  of  loves  and  fights, 
when  this  whipper-snapper  of  a  man  should  dare 
confront  him  in  silence,  and  pretend  to  rob  him  of  a 
wench  who  was  legitimately  his  ?  A  rival — that  he 
should  have  a  rival !  It  had  come  to  that !  And  a 
rival,  moreover,  whom  no  raging  words  of  his  could 
urge  into  a  like  torrent  of  comely,  godly,  sweet  abuse. 

There  are  some  whose  fiery  speech,  like  a  surging 
torrent  of  lava,  requires  the  cold  and  solid  impassive- 
ness  of  rock  and  wind  to  burst  out  at  its  fiercest — 
some  whom  silence  does  but  irritate  the  more — to 
whom  calm  is  as  the  whip-lash  to  the  bolting  foal. 
Such  an  one  was  our  Testadoro,  and  quiet  was  a 
particular  stimulant  to  his  ire.  If  he  should  encounter 
a  merry  devil  of  a  swashbuckler,  free  of  his  words 
as  of  his  blows,  with  an  unquenchable  and  multi- 
lingual fountain  of  ready  oaths  at  the  back  of  his 
tongue,  a  fellow  whom  it  was  a  pleasure  to  hark  to, 
in  a  word,  be  you  a  man  of  arms  or  a  lady  of  pleasure 
— then,  I  say,  would  none  be  so  bent  on  making  a 
friend  of  him  as  Paolo  Testadoro,  late  of  Padua, 
formerly  of  Naples.  There  are  many  like  him,  more- 
over, for  what  do  we  all  most  admire  in  others,  but 
the  qualities — aye,  and  the  foibles  too — the  which 
fail  not  in  us  ?  Broadly  speaking,  every  man  is  a 
mirror — but  I  must  not  enter  upon  a  discussion. 

With  a  howl  like  that  of  a  bleeding  calf,  Testadoro 
flung  himself  at  his  opponent,  who,  if  truth  must 


36  RATHER  LIKE.... 

be  told,  was  responsible  for  the  like  gestures,  though 
in  unwonted  silence.  Rapier  in  hand,  his  fury  was 
such  as  that  of  a  belling  stag  in  a  dismal  glade — 
and  such  was  his  roaring — the  echoes  of  the  which 
were  his  only  reply — the  echoes,  aye,  and  an  ear- 
splitting,  thundering,  resounding  crash,  as  if  all  the 
bottles  in  the  little  tavern  had  taken  it  into  their 
glossy  bellies  to  fall  at  the  same  time.  In  came 
running  the  girl  of  innocent  wiles — the  unhappy 
cause  of  the  disaster,  a  frown  of  foreboding  and  of 
fear  by  now  printed  on  her  comely  brow.  When 
she  entered  the  tavern  room,  alas,  a  scene  of  wreck 
and  desolation  met  her  liquid  eye — a  lifeless  mass  of 
glass  splinters,  felt  hats,  grey  coats,  broken  rapiers, 
and  a  surging  ocean  of  blood. 

"  Madonna  !  Lo  specchio  mio ! "  she  cried,  and 
bent  down  towards  the  mess.  .  .  .  There  was — or 
rather  there  was  no  more — the  worthy  Paolo  Testa- 
doro,  late  of  Padua,  formerly  of  Naples,  with  bits  of 
shattered  glass  prodded  into  his  forty-five  summered 
body,  and  the  point  of  a  glass  rapier  well  spitted 
through  his  heart. 

Thus,  in  the  year  of  grace  1367,  it  befell  a  warrior 
bold  to  gaze  at  his  own  reflection  in  a  high  Venetian 
mirror,  the  pride  of  Murano,  and  the  joy  of  a  comely 
wench — and  his  fate,  alike  that  of  the  beauteous 
Narcissus  of  old,  was  sealed  thereby,  and  his  life 
brought  to  an  ignominious — if  unexpected — close — 
a  conclusion  as  sound  as  that  I,  the  chronicler,  sit 
here  to  write. 


R.  L.  STEVENSON  37 


ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON 

SOME  HITHERTO  UNPUBLISHED  RHYMES 
FROM  "A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES." 

THE  MOTOR  CAR 

THE  motor-car  is  full  of  fire, 
And  roars  along  at  heart's  desire,.. 
Oh  !    How  I'd  love  to  be  the  man 
Who  guides  it  straight  behind  a  van ! 

Just  think  how  jolly  it  must  be 
To  dodge  and  run,  and  toot,  and  see 
The  little  children  cross  or  gay 
Run  helter-skelter  from  its  way! 

The  motor-car,  besides,  is  full 
Of  noise — just  like  a  charging  bull — 
And  nothing  looks  so  strong  or  swift — 
Not  ev'n  a  train,  not  ev'n  a  lift. 

But  then,  the  motor-car  must  run 
In  pelting  rain — and  that's  no  fun  : 
It's  better  far  for  little  boys 
To  sit  at  home  beside  their  toys. 


38  RATHER  LIKE.... 

THE  LAMP 

WHEN  the  sun  goes  down  far  behind  the  west 
Long  before  it's  time  to  lie  down  to  rest, 
Then  my  nurse  comes  in,  and  she  lights  the  lamp  .  .  . 
But  it  smells  of  oil,  and  its  light  seems  damp. 

I  should  like  a  lamp  just  like  Dickie's  own  : 
You  turn  a  knob,  and  it  burns  alone  ; 
You  don't  need  a  match,  and  it's  always  right ; 
It's  shut  up  in  glass,  and  can  burn  all  night. 

LANGUAGES  (i) 

I  met  a  little  girl  to-day, 
Who's  very  nice  to  run  and  play — 
But  what  she  says  is  so,  so  queer, 
I  can't  make  out  the  things  I  hear ! 

And  when  I  rested  on  a  bench, 
Nurse  said  the  little  girl  was  French: 
Why  can't  the  children  of  all  lands 
Speak  so  that  each  one  understands  ? 

HAPPY  THOUGHT  (2) 

WHEN  I  grow  up,  of  course  I'll  be 

An  aviator  all  may  see  : 

And  those  who  gave  me  sums  to  do, 

I'll  drop  upon  them  trom  the  blue, 

Right  through  their  roofs,  upon  their  beds, 

And  crack  their  silly,  cruel  heads 

(l) — Young  R.L.S.  had  evidently  not  yet  heard  of  esperanto,  nor 
even  of  volapuck.  (Ed.) 

(2) — This  "  happy  thought  "  is  of  course  of  a  rather  more  blood- 
thirsty nature  than  those  generally  expressed  in  "A  Child's 
garden."  The  provocation  of  "  sums  to  do,"  however, 
justifies  retaliation.  (Ed.) 


R.  L.  STEVENSON  39 

BOOKS  (3) 

THE  letters  black,  that  all  may  know, 
Are  just  like  soldiers  in  a  row, 
And  though  they're  silent,  stiff  and  still, 
I  hear  their  talk,  I  see  their  drill. 

And  all  the  pages  of  the  book, 
They  seem  to  call :    "Do  come  and  look ! 
I've  lovely  treasures,  all  for  you  "... 
And  when  I  read,  I  love  them  too. 

It  must  be  grand,  I  think,  to  write 

A  book  to  please  the  children  bright, 

To  make  their  eyes  and  hearts  aglow 

With  thoughts  they  feel,  and  words  they  know  ! 

(3) — This   shows   young    R.L.S.   in    the   light  of  a  true   prophet. 
(Editor's  notes). 


40  RATHER  LIKE.... 


ON  an  afternoon  in  April,  a  man  was  carelessly 
sauntering  along  the  Strand.  At  first  sight, 
he  would  have  attracted  no  more  notice  than 
thousands  of  other  men  walking  in  the  streets  at 
the  same  time  ;  but  seen  nearer,  he  was  different.  He 
was  not  old,  although  a  sort  of  unnatural  stoop  seemed 
to  possess  his  back  ;  and  contrasting  with  the  light 
shining  in  his  eyes,  his  skin  had  a  bizarre  yellowish 
hue  that  is  not  generally  seen  in  an  Englishman  :  his 
high  forehead,  and  aquiline  nose,  moreover,  seemed  to 
belie  the  roundness  of  his  chin,  arid  thick,  sensuous 
lips  added  a  touch  of  effeminacy  to  his  already  un- 
common allure.  He  was  well  dressed,  in  so  far  as 
his  suit  was  of  good  cloth  and  cut  to  the  height  of 
fashion ;  yet,  somehow,  it  did  not  seem  to  tit  him  as  it 
ought.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  foreign  blood  flowed 
in  his  veins.  Paul  Cashmere — for  that  was  his  name 
— had  been  born  in  Egypt ;  his  father  was  English, 
and  his  mother  was  of  Oriental  extraction — indeed, 
it  was  rumoured  that  she  descended  Irom  one  of  the 
sacred  dancers  in  a  small  island  of  the  Malay  Archi- 
pelago, who  had  been  loved — and  carried  off — by  an 


ROBERT  HICHENS  41 

English  conqueror  at  the  time  of  Clive  or  Warren 
Hastings.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Paul  had,  at  all  events, 
some  beautiful  Oriental  jewels  in  his  bachelor's 
chambers  behind  Hannover  Square,  which  had  been 
left  to  him  by  his  mother  when  she  died,  and  it  is 
quite  possible  that  she  had  also  told  him  some  of  the 
strange  tales  connected  with  the  gems,  magnificent 
turquoises,  blazing  rubies,  cunningly-mounted  emer- 
alds, and  glistening  pearls — which  alone  represented 
a  small  fortune. 

Cashmere  felt  peculiarly  distrait  on  that  warm 
afternoon — a  sensation  as  of  physical  hunger  gnawing 
somewhere  at  his  body  as  well  as  at  his  soul.  Yet 
he  had  no  reason  whatever  to  be  unhappy,  or  even 
ill  at  ease.  He  was  comfortably  off,  with  no  cares 
for  the  future — which  did  away  once  for  all  with  the 
idea  that  he  might  have  done  without  lunch  on  that 
or  any  other  day  ;  and,  moreover,  he  was  engaged 
to  be  married  to  Esther  Longwood,  a  very  pretty 
girl  whom  he  had  met  several  times  at  Lady  Mark- 
ham's,  fallen  in  love  with,  and  eventually  proposed 
to  and  been  accepted  by.  He  was  to  take  her  to 
the  theatre  to-night — and  he  had  absolutely  no 
cause  for  bodily  uneasiness.  He  had  always  enjoyed 
the  best  of  healths,  his  Egyptian  birth  mingling  with 
his  British  education,  to  give  him  corporal  hardiness 
and  vigour.  Yes,  everything  was  going  very  well 
with  him,  and  yet  he  felt  something  unaccountably 
bizarre  this  afternoon,  something  that  made  him 
oblivious  to  all  the  life  and  bustle  that  surrounded 
him,  concentrating  his  sensations  and  emotions  to 
that  little,  insidious,  gnawing  pang,  which  went  on 
pecking  at  his  body. — or  was  it  his  soul  ? 

Cabs  and  taxis  were  rushing  on,  conveying  hurried 
men  to  stations,  or  pretty  women  to  their  friends. 


42  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Motor-' buses  were  pounding  along,  uttering  their 
fierce  growl.  Crossing-sweeps  and  newspaper  boys 
were  running  from  one  side  to  the  other,  dodging 
the  heavy  traffic.  Here  were  pompous  business-men, 
in  frock-coats  and  top  hats,  reading  their  paper  as 
they  walked.  And  there  were  women — pretty  women 
who  stood  gazing  in  front  of  jewellers'  shops,  or  plain 
ones,  their  hands  full  of  parcels,  calling  lustily  to 
a  disobedient  child.  A  dog  was  sitting  wistfully 
on  a  tobacconist's  doorstep,  as  if  it  understood  the 
secret  of  human  life — and  were  sorry  for  it.  A  cat, 
gliding  nearly  up  to  it,  arched  her  back  and  started 
hissing  fiendishly.  There,  in  the  middle  of  the  street, 
stood  a  policeman,  the  picture  of  stolidness,  helping 
nervous  old  dames  through  the  bedlam  of  traffic. 
All  sorts  of  noises  mingled  together  in  an  increasing 
and  glaring  hum  :  the  stamping  of  hoofs,  the  roar  of 
motors,  the  tramping  of  hundreds  of  feet,  the  shrill 
cries  of  surprise,  joy  or  pain,  the  hissing  of  a  distant 
siren,  the  rumble  of  a  heavy  van — and  the  twitter  of 
birds.  And  everything  and  everyone  seemed  to  be 
there  for  a  purpose  ;  all  had  some  definite  object 
to  do. 

And  yet,  as  Paul  walked  on,  the  continual  op- 
pression of  this  little  thing  continued  to  claw  at  him 
without  any  apparent  reason.  He  felt  a  mysterious 
something  within  him,  as  though  the  poisonous  fangs 
of  a  hissing  snake  were  trying  to  clutch  at  his  soul.  .  . 
For  it  was  his  soul,  surely.  Hunger  he  had  not,  he 
could  not  have.  .  .  .  What  could  it  be  his  innermost 
being  was  thus  yearning  for  ?  He  had  never  had 
this  strange  feeling  before.  .  .  .  He  walked  listlessly 
along  ;  from  time  to  time,  he  responded,  quite  ab- 
sently, to  a  friend's  nod,  or  to  an  acquaintance's 
more  elaborate  salutation.  But  he  would  have  been 


ROBERT  HICHENS  43 

unable  to  recognize  them  himself,  or  even  to  remember 
those  whom  he  had  indeed  met  on  his  way.  His 
thoughts  were  wandering  in  a  maze  of  strange  sen- 
sations, in  which  the  little  gnawing  pain  was  the 
eternal  leit-motiv,  while  his  mind  was  really  focussed 
on  no  definite  object.  He  saw  the  things  around 
him,  and  yet  he  heeded  them  not.  Dozens  of  pretty 
faces  might  have  reminded  him  of  his  young  fiancee, 
but  he  did  not  smile  back  at  the  gushing  or  ironical 
smiles  that  came  his  way  :  he  had  no  eye  for  beauty 
or  for  youth  .  .  .  His  soul  had,  for  the  moment, 
completely  dispossessed  his  body. 

Without  his  noticing  it,  he  had  left  the  busy 
thoroughfares,  to  reach  the  comparative  calm  of 
more  secluded  streets.  He  passed  along  a  garden, 
from  which  flowed  to  his  ready  nostrils  delicate  per- 
fumes of  honeysuckle  and  sweet-peas.  The  odour 
attracted  him  unwillingly,  and  he  stopped  for  a 
moment,  looking  absently  at  the  sunny  beds  and 
shady  leaves.  Suddenly  he  noticed  a  bee  emerge 
from  behind  a  nettle  that  a  careless  gardner  had 
allowed  to  grow  in  this  beautifully  cultivated  spot. 
The  insect  hovered  for  an  instant  over  a  bed  of  wall- 
flowers, flew  further,  alighted  on  a  massif  of  pansies, 
again  bounded  off,  and  seemed  to  disdain  all  these 
delicate  and  sweet-smelling  jewels  in  bloom.  It  flew 
from  one  to  another,  seeking  here,  looking  there,  but 
apparently  finding  nowhere  that  upon  which  it  had 
started  on  its  mysterious  and  all-important  mission. 
Paul  saw  it  flit  from  stem  to  stem,  from  petal  to 
petal,  listless,  disconsolate,  just  as  he.  What  was  it 
seeking,  this  humble  insect  ?  What  was  the  un- 
known pain  gnawing  at  its  soul  ?  .  .  .  All  at  once, 
the  bee  seemed  to  have  found  its  mission  ;  it  shot 
forth  like  a  blazing  topaz  in  the  sun,  straight  to  the 


44  RATHER  LIKE.... 

ugly,  poisonous,  wild  nettle  from  which  Paul  had  seen 
it  emerge,  and  there  it  remained,  apparently  contented 
at  last.  Was  that,  then,  the  rdle  for  which  it  had 
been  created — to  flutter  an  instant  amid  the  smiling 
sun  and  laughing  flowers — only  to  be  fatally  attracted, 
in  the  end,  by  the  squalid  plant  from  which  it  had 
issued  ? 

Paul  walked  on,  and  now  the  gnaw.ng  pain  came 
on  him  in  its  fullest  strength.  He  reached  his  rooms 
more  distressed  than  he  could  remember  having 
been  since  he  had  had  the  scarlet  fever  as  a  boy,  and 
was  somewhat  relieved  when  his  Arab  servant  told 
him,  in  French,  that  a  gentleman  was  waiting  for 
him. 

He  found  his  visitor  in  the  sitting-room.  He 
was  a  man  of  thiry-five,  perhaps  forty,  with  a  large 
black  beard,  and  piercing,  green  eyes  ;  he  was  scru- 
pulously attired  in  black  frock-coat  and  trousers, 
while  a  large  black  silk  tie  falling  right  down  on  to 
his  shirt-front  proclaimed  him  to  be  a  Frenchman, 
and  moreover  an  artist. 

"  I  have  the  honour  of  addressing  Monsieur  Paul 
Cashmere  ?  "  he  asked  in  very  bad  English. 

"  That  is  my  name,  Monsieur,"  answered  Paul, 
in  very  fluent  French,  which  tongue  he  had  acquired 
as  a  boy,  in  the  East.  "  Pray,  be  seated,  and  converse 
in  your  own  tongue — for  I  presume  you  are  a  French- 
man, Monsieur,"  he  added,  smiling. 

"  You  are  right,  Monsieur,"  was  the  reply.  "  I 
am  Emile  Roussillon,  and  you  may  have  heard  my 
name  .  .  ." 

"  Emile  Roussillon  !  "  exclaimed  Cashmere,  "  why, 
Esther  Longwood,  the  lady  I  am  affianced  to,  has 
often  spoken  to  me  about  you.  Although  1  have 
never  met  you,  I  seem  to  know  you  very  well,  and  I 


ROBERT  HICHENS  45 

can  assure  you  you  are  most  welcome  in  these  bach- 
elor's chambers." 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur,"  courteously  answered 
Rousillon.  "  It  is  indeed  from  my  dear  friend,  Miss 
Longwood,  that  I  heard  of  you,  and  I  call  upon  you 
at  the  present  moment  at  her  request." 

"  You  have  seen  her  ?  She  is  not  unwell  ?  "  Paul 
hastily  cried  out,  forgetting  his  own  mysterious  pain. 

"  No,  Monsieur,  I  have  not  seen  her  for  over  three 
months,"  replied  the  Frenchman.  "  But  I  presume 
her  health  is  most  excellent,  as  I  received  a  telegram 
from  her  as  late  as  yesterday  evening.  But,  no 
doubt,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  you  have  had  the  oc- 
casion of  seeing  Miss  Longwood  long  since  I  saw  her 
last,  and  therefore  you  can  be  sure  of  what  I  can  but 
conjecture." 

The  subject  of  health  suddenly  brought  back 
to  Paul  the  pangs  he  had  been  feeling  before  the 
advent  of  his  visitor.  Roussillon  went  on : 

"  As  I  said,  I  received  a  telegram,  yesterday  night, 
from  Miss  Longwood,  asking  me  to  call  upon  you 
this  afternoon,  and  to  join  you  and  your  fiancee  at 
the  theatre  to-night.  She  wishes  me  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  her  future  husband,  and  I  doubt  not 
that  a  soiree  at  a  theatre  in  your  company  will  be  a 
great  pleasure  to  me — if  only  I  may  believe  I  do  not 
intrude." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Paul,  "  you  are  most  heartily 
welcome,  and  besides,  any  summons  from  Esther  is 
to  me  a  command." 

He  called  his  Arab  servant,  and  told  him  to  bring 
in  Turkish  Coffee. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  accept  a  cup  of  your  favourite 
beverage,  Monsieur,"  he  added  courteously,  glancing 
at  his  visitor. 


46  RATHER  LIKE.... 

' '  Although  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  drinking 
coffee  in  the  afternoon — I  am  afraid  we  French  have 
taken  to  tea,"  Roussillon  replied,  "  I  shall  be  very 
pleased  to  partake  of  a  cup  after  my  journey— besides 
which  I  have  found  that  coffee  always  gives  me 
ideas." 

They  drank  coffee  as  only  connoisseurs  can  drink 
and  appreciate  it.  and  as  though  to  emphasize  the 
poet's  words,  his  talk  became  brilliant  with  psycholo- 
gical insight  and  the  latest  Parisian  potins.  He 
made  an  appointment  with  his  host :  he  was  to  meet 
him  and  his  fiancee  at  the  theatre,  and  to  have  supper 
after  the  performance,  at  Rusticani's ;  "  Yes,"  thought- 
fully added  Paul,  "  Rusticani's  is  the  best  place  in 
London  to  get  a  good  souffle  a  la  vanille  and  a  decent 
cup  of  coffee.  I  much  prefer  it  to  Cavalleri's,  although 
it  is  much  less  fashionable  .  . . ." 

Roussillon  withdrew,  his  mind  full  of  his  friend's 
betrothed,  whose  character  he  had  already  summed 
up.  As  a  psychologist  he  was  well  known,  his  verses 
having  taken  Paris  by  storm  two  years  ago  ;  and  it 
was  no  new  experience  for  him  to  penetrate  into  the 
innermost  secrets  of  a  man's  soul — or  of  a  woman's — 
in  the  time  it  took  for  an  idle  conversation.  Never- 
theless, he  was  glad  to  know  he  would  have  ample 
opportunities  to-night,  at  the  theatre  and  at  the 
restaurant,  of  confirming  his  first  observations. 

When  Emile  Roussillon  arrived  at  the  immense 
play-house  that  night,  his  friends  were  already  there, 
and  beckoned  him  to  the  empty  seat  they  had  kept 
for  him  ;  he  and  Paul  were  on  either  side  of  Esther, 
whose  rosy  cheeks,  without  even  a  suspicion  of  rouge 
or  of  powder,  seemed  to  burst  into  a  brilliancy  of 
pleasure  at  seeing  her  friend  and  her  lover  and  at  the 
expectation  of  the  performance.  Roussillon  chatted 


ROBERT  HICHENS  47 

wittily  in  French,  and  noticed  that  Cashmere  seemed 
more  silent  and  constrained  than  in  the  afternoon. 
He  saw  the  musicians  file  into  their  seats  before  the 
curtain  ;  a  little  man  with  white  hair  stepped  into 
the  orchestra,  waved  his  baguette,  and  the  overture 
began. 

The  curtain  was  raised  on  an  Oriental  scene,  in 
some  far-off  imaginary  land,  where  the  sky  is  a  delicate 
blue,  and  palm-trees  seem  to  grow  everywhere  at  once. 
Men  in  flowing  silken  garments,  women  in  fantastic 
kimono-gowns,  moved  along  the  stage,  sang,  and 
danced.  The  play  was  a  new  opera  by  a  young 
Italian  master,  who  had  aimed  at  something  at  once 
original  and  highly  realistic  So  his  librettist  had 
chosen  to  carry  away  the  audience  to  some  distant 
Eastern  island,  while  the  composer  introduced  some 
weird  and  savage  music  into  his  score — the  exact 
rendering,  said  the  play-bills,  of  exotic  melodies, 
harmonised  according  to  the  laws  of  those  far-away 
islands. 

Roussillon  studied  the  faces  of  his  two  companions 
as  the  play  proceeded.  The  girl's  eyes  were  full  of 
wonder  and  joy,  but  her  ears  seemed  to  shrink  from 
the  bizarre  harmony,  full  of  discordant  sounds  that 
burst  upon  them  :  she  was  evidently  interested  in 
the  play,  but  it  did  not  grip  her  completely  :  from 
time  to  time,  even,  she  allowed  her  gaze  to  roam 
across  the  stalls,  or  to  meet  the  smiling  eyes  of  her 
friend.  Paul,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  to  drink 
in  the  wonderful  sights  and  sounds  :  the  mysterious 
flowers,  the  coral-besparkled  sea,  the  sapphire  sky, 
sank  deep  into  his  eyes,  while  the  unnatural  music 
was  ardently  drunk  by  his  ready  ears.  There  was  a 
little  tinkling  trill,  to  a  bass  accompaniment  of  tom- 
toms and  exotic  lutes,  that  completely  held  him  under 


48  RATHER  LIKE.... 

a  spell.  And,  now  and  again,  he  would  seem  to 
quiver  all  over  with  the  strange  rhythm  and  the 
fantastic  passion  of  the  music,  with  the  sensuous 
and  thrilling  horror  of  the  play. 

Before  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  act,  he  nervously 
clutched  at  Esther's  arm,  and  said  in  a  terse  whisper  : 
"  I  cannot  endure  it  any  longer — I  must  go  now." 
All  three  filed  out  of  the  theatre,  amid  the  unwelcome 
whisperings  of  incensed  spectators  behind  them,  and 
Paul  spoke  out,  a  twinge  of  pain  on  his  yellow  face — 
more  yellow  than  ever  in  the  twilight  of  a  theatre 
vestibule,  while  the  play  is  still  going  on.  "  Monsieur," 
he  said  to  Roussillon,  in  French,  "  I  must  beg  of  you 
to  excuse  me  ...  I  absolutely  cannot  go  to  a  rest- 
aurant now  :  I  feel  ill,  I  feel  ...  I  do  not  really 
know  what  I  feel  ...  If  you  will  do  me  the  favour 
of  accompanying  Esther,  I  shall  deem  it  a  great 
service  .  .  .  And  you,  my  dearly-beloved,"  he  added, 
turning  to  the  girl,  who  was  visibly  upset  by  this 
sudden  and  painful  contretemps,  "  you  too  must 
excuse  me  if  I  play  the  role  of  a  cold  douche  on  your 
projected  pleasure  .  .  .  Really,  I  must  return  to  my 
rooms ;  I  am  not  fit  to  remain  out.  .  .  ." 

"  My  poor  Paul,  of  course  you  are  not  to  stay  out 
if  you  feel  unwell.  I  do  hope  it  will  prove  to  be 
nothing  serious  .  .  .  Send  me  a  note  as  soon  as  you 
can." 

Roussillon  hailed  a  cab  for  his  new  friend  and 
Paul  gave  his  address  in  a  hoarse  whisper  that  was 
painful  to  hear.  He  entered  the  cab  without  a  word, 
and  was  driven  off. 

When  he  remained  alone  with  Eether,  the  poet 
looked  at  the  shivering  girl :  "  Come,"  he  said,  "  let 
us  go  and  have  some  supper,  you  look  as  if  you  needed 
it." 


ROBERT  HICHENS  49 

"  No,  Emile  "  answered  the  girl,  "  I  cannot  think 
of  swallowing  a  morsel  while  poor  dear  Paul  is  suffer- 
ing like  that.  .  .  .  No,  we  shall  not  go  to  Rusticani's 
to-night ;  but  drive  me  home,  and  tell  me  about 
Paul,"  she  added,  smiling  wistfully. 

Roussillon  hailed  a  hansom,  and  gave  the  driver 
Esther's  address,  adding,  in  his  foreign  English,  that 
he  was  not  to  drive  too  fast.  The  man  nodded,  his 
face  wreathed  in  a  vicious  smile,  which  expressed 
itself  in  the  few  words  of  foul  slang  he  uttered  while 
he  was  regaining  his  box.  Esther  and  her  friend 
were  driven  away  in  their  turn. 

The  girl's  anxious  eyes  were  turned  towards  the 
poet's  piercing  gaze  :  "  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what 
is  your  opinion  of  Paul  ?  I  am  glad  you  have  seen 
him,  and  spoken  to  him — it  was  really  most  kind  of 
you  to  obey  my  sudden  telegram,  but  I  am  sorry 
he  should  feel  unwell  just  on  this  occasion  .  .  .  And 
you  are  something  of  a  doctor,  Emile,"  she  added 
hastily,  "  you  often  told  me  of  your  experiences  as  a 
medical  student  in  Paris  .  .  .  Tell  me  what  is  the 
matter  with  Paul.  .  .  .  But  tell  me  first  of  all  what 
you  think  of  him.  Is  he  not  a  splendid  fellow  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Roussillon,  "  he  is  a  splendid 
fellow — of  that  I  am  convinced.  .  .  .  Has  he  only 
English  blood  in  his  veins  ?  " 

"  How  penetrating  you  are  !  "  cried  out  the  girl. 
"  No,  his  mother  was  of  Oriental  extraction  ;  her 
ancestors  lived  somewhere  in  the  Malay  Archipelago." 

"  Just  what  I  thought,"  muttered  the  psycholcg- 
ist.  "  His  pain  must  be  more  immaterial  than 
physical,  more  of  the  soul  than  of  the  body.  I  dare- 
say Charcot  could,  at  a  glance,  diagnose  his  case  qvite 
accurately  ;  but  I  have  not  Charvot's  experience  and 
training  .  .  .  Still,  I  believe  your  fiancees  English 
3 


50  RATHER  LIKE.... 

body  is  a  ready  receptacle  for  all  sorts  of  mysterious 
Eastern  traditions,  thoughts,  or  sensations  ...  Do 
not  misunderstand  me,  Esther,"  he  continued,  as  he 
saw  an  expression  of  awe  flit  into  her  ready  gaze,  "  I 
do  not  wish  to  say  anything  unkind,  or  to  cause  either 
him  or  you  the  slightest  sorrow.  But,  while  your 
future  husband  will  lead  the  life  of  a  respectable 
English  gentleman,  I  feel  sure  some  part  of  his  soul 
will,  from  time  to  time,  be  impregnated  with  ancestral 
memories,  with  Oriental,  Extreme-Oriental,  instincts 
and  habits.  We  must  all  heed  to  the  call  of  our 
primeval  blood — and  Orientals  above  all.  .  .  ." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Esther  anxiously  asked, 
•'That  he  will  go  and  do  something  dreadfully  eccent- 
ric ...  worship  a  totem,  or  something  like  that  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  He  will, 
perhaps,  do  nothing  at  nil.  The  call  will  perhaps 
only  appeal  to  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  soul — that 
is  no  doubt  the  explanation  of  the  bizarre  feeling 
that  troubled  him  to-night.  But,"  he  thoughtfully 
added,  "  I  daresay  a  good  night's  rest  will  bring  the 
Western  man  out  again." 

"  And  you  think  such  attacks  as  this  will  go  on 
wearying  him  at  regular  intervals  ?  "  said  the  girl, 
now  somewhat  reassured  by  her  companion's  optimism. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  certainly  not  at  regular  inter- 
vals. But  most  probably  they  will  recur  ;  they  will 
no  doubt  become  fewer  and  farther  between,  and 
weaker,  too,  but  they  are  practically  bound  to  come 
on  :  the  body,  like  the  soul,  cannot  remain  for  ever 
deaf  to  the  imperious  call  of  ancestry  ;  blood  has  a 
voice,  which  must  be  heard  from  time  to  time.  It 
shall  be  heard  ...  it  is  at  the  present  moment  .  .  . 
But  I  think  nothing  more  terrible  may  occur  than 
some  inconvenience  as  to-night." 


ROBERT  HICHENS  51 

"  At  all  events,"  muttered  Esther,  "  I  am  glad 
you  like  Paul.  Oh,  how  I  wish  we  were  married 
already  !  " 

Her  young  face  was  brilliant  now  with  gushing 
hope  and  joy  that  her  recent  anxiety  had  suppressed. 
They  were  already  nearing  her  familiar  house.  The 
hansom  was  rattling  through  grim,  quiet  streets  where 
unnatural  darkness  was  but  bespecked  by  the  yellow 
glow  of  gas  lamps.  No  other  cabs  seemed  to  be  out 
at  this  yet  early  hour  ;  people  were  still  at  the  theatres 
or  in  the  music-halls, — or  at  most  in  the  restaurants. 
She  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  saw  but  vague 
outlines  of  gaunt  houses,  a  railing  that  flickered  an 
instant  in  the  light  of  a  lamp,  the  fleeting  curb, — but 
never  a  human  soul.  And  she  felt  glad  at  being  alone 
with  her  old  friend,  who  had  brought  some  consola- 
tion into  her  anxious  mind,  with  the  never-failing 
weight  of  his  psychological  experience. 

The  hansom  slowed  down,  and  stopped  in  front  of 
a  dark  mansion.  Esther  recognised  her  own  home, 
and  got  out,  while  Roussillon  paid  and  dismissed  the 
cabman,  who  drove  off  with  a  muttered  remark  of 
"  'Ad  enough  of  it,  you  two  ?  " — The  poet  saw  his 
friend  into  her  house. 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed  in  French,  as  he  took  leave 
of  her,  "  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  am  not  returning  to 
Paris  till  to-morrow  night.  I  am  staying  at  Charing 
Cross,  as  usual.  I  hope  to  hear  from  you,  Esther  .  .  . 
Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  the  girl  gently  responded,  "  and 
thank  you  for  remaining  another  day.  I  shall  cer- 
tainly see  you  to-morrow.  Good-night." 

Emile  Roussillon  walked  back  to  his  hotel,  his 
mind  wrapped  up  in  thought.  "  Poor  Esther,"  he 
muttered,  "  I  tried  to  reassure  her :  she  must  be 


52  RATHER  LIKE.... 

distraite  by  some  welcome  thought.  But  I  feel  sure 
that  Paul  Cashmere  has  heard  the  Call  to-day  ;  the 
play  itself  has  acted  upon  the  hidden  springs  of  his 
soul  .  .  .  The  Blood  has  called . .  Who  knows  whether 
the  Call  does  not  demand  Blood  ?  "...  He  collided 
into  a  burly  policeman,  who  no  doubt  imagined  him 
to  be  drunk,  but  let  him  proceed  without  undue  inter- 
ference. He  barely  missed  being  run  over  as  he 
crossed  a  large  thoroughfare,  alive  with  its  nocturnal 
traffic.  He  trod  on  a  blind  beggar's  toes,  and 
nearly  crushed  a  stra}7  dog.  "  Poor  Esther  !  "  he 
murmured  once  more  as  he  reached  his  hotel. 


The  next  morning  at  eleven,  as  he  sat  writing  in 
his  luxurious  room,  an  obsequious  waiter  brought  him 
a  note  wMch  had  just  been  delivered  by  a  messenger- 
boy.  Rnussillon  recognised  Esther's  handwriting  at 
once,  and  tore  open  the  envelope.  "  My  dear  Emile," 
it  ran,  "  do  come  at  once  to  the  enclosed  address.  I 
will  explain  later.  Yours,  E.L."  Enclosed  was  one 
of  Cashmere's  visiting  cards. 

Roussillon  jumped  up,  set  his  hat  upon  his  head, 
and  rushed  out.  He  hailed  a  waiting  cab  in  front  of 
the  hotel,  and  gave  Paul's  address.  All  was  a  babel 
of  bustle  and  noise.  .  .  .  Cabs  and  taxis  were  rushing 
on,  conveying  hurried  men  to  stations,  or  pretty 
women  to  their  friends.  Motor-'buses  were  pounding 
along,  uttering  their  fierce  growls.  Crossing-sweeps 
and  newspaper-boys  were  running  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  dodging  the  heavy  traffic.  Here  were 
pompous  business-men  in  frock-coats  and  top  hats, 
reading  their  papers  as  they  walked.  And  there  were 
women — pretty  women  who  stood  gazing  in  front  of 


ROBERT  HICHENS  53 

jewellers'  shops,  or  plain  ones,  their  hands  full  of 
parcels,  calling  lustily  to  a  disobedient  child.  A  dog 
was  sitting  wistfully  on  a  tobacconist's  doorstop,  as  if  it 
understood  the  secret  of  human  life — and  were  sorry 
for  it.  A  cat,  gliding  nearly  up  to  it,  arched  her  back 
and  started  hissing  fiendishly.  There,  in  the  middle 
of  the  street,  stood  a  policeman,  the  picture  of  stolid- 
ness,  helping  nervous  old  dames  through  the  bedlam 
of  traffic.  All  sorts  of  noises  mingled  together  in 
an  unceasing  and  glaring  hum :  the  stamping  of 
hoofs,  the  roar  of  motors,  the  tramping  of  hundreds 
of  feet,  the  shrill  cries  of  surprise,  joy  or  pain,  the 
hissing  of  a  distant  siren,  the  rumble  of  a  heavy  van 
— and  the  twitter  of  birds.  And  everything  and 
everyone  seemed  to  be  there  for  a  purpose ;  all  had 
some  definite  object  to  do. 

While  this  tableau  was  unravelling  itself  before 
his  half-closed  eyes,  like  a  huge  cinema-film,  Rous- 
sillon  thought  of  his  friend  and  her  fiance,  and  dark 
visions  of  foreboding  seemed  to  cloud  the  clear  and 
sunny  day.  The  morning  produced  upon  his  highly- 
strung  imagination  the  effect  of  some  large  ante- 
diluvian beast,  just  about  to  spring,  and  his  mind's 
eye  was  deep  in  the  horror  of  blood  .  .  .  the  Blood 
of  the  Call,  as  he  himself  had  named  it  but  yesterday. 

He  alighted  from  his  cab  in  front  of  Paul's  rooms, 
and  met  the  Arab  servant  just  as  he  had  passed  the 
threshold. 

"  Where  is  your  master  ?  "  he  asked,  in  French. 

"  Follow  me,  I  will  take  you  to  him,"  the  lad 
answered,  in  the  same  tongue. 

Roussillon  was  conducted  to  Cashmere's  bedroom, 
where  he  saw  Esther's  anxious  form,  and  that  of  a 
doctor  bending  over  a  sickbed.  He  walked  across  to 
it,  and  saw  Paul's  yellow  face,  immobile  as  if  in  a 


54  RATHER  LIKE.... 

trance,  and  horribly  distorted  by  pain,  while  the 
pillow  and  bedclothes  were  smeared  with  blood. 

"  Ah,  you  have  come,  Emile,"  murmured  the  girl, 
and  introduced  her  friend  to  the  doctor. 

"  Good  morning,  Monsieur,"  said  the  physician. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  make  your  acquaintance  under  such 
painful  auspices  .  .  .  My  dear,"  he  added,  turning 
to  Esther,  "  will  you  leave  us  for  a  few  moments  ? 
I  wish  to  say  a  word  to  Monsieur  Roussillon." 

The  girl  obediently  left  the  room,  with  an  anxious 
glance  at  her  senseless  lover. 

"  Monsieur,"  exclaimed  the  doctor  as  soon  as  she 
was  gone,  "  this  is  a  horrible  case  !  My  patient  is 
dead  .  .  ." 

"  Dead  ?     Alas  !  "  broke  out  Roussillon. 

"  Quite  dead  .  .  .  Miss  Longwood  does  not  know 
yet ;  I  told  her  he  was  in  a  trance  .  .  .  But  he  is  no 
more.  .  .  .  And  the  most  horrible  part  is,  he  seems  to 
have  died  of  poison  ;  the  symptoms  clearly  point  to 
an  Oriental  alkaloid,  which  is  only  found  in  some 
islands  of  the  Malay  Archipelago  ;  I  have  tested  the 
blood,  which  I  found  gushing  from  his  mouth,  and  it 
corroborates  the  first  symptoms.  How  can  the  poor 
man  have  been  poisoned  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  suddenly  exclaimed  Roussillon, 
"  I  think  I  understand.  The  inhabitants  of  these 
particular  islands  are  cannibals,  are  they  not  ?  " 

"  Some  of  them  are, — most  of  them,  even," 
assented  the  doctor. 

"  And  they  use  this  alkaloid  to  poison  their  arrows, 
and  spears,  and  other  weapons  .  .  .  Monsieur,"  he 
added  in  a  tragic  whisper,  "  Monsieur  Cashmere  has 
heard  the  voice  of  his  ancestors — and  this  " — he 
pointed  to  the  blood-stains  on  the  dead  man's  bed — 
"  this  is  the  Blood  of  the  Call.  Yesterday  Cashmere 


ROBERT  HICHENS  55 

heard  the  imperious  voice  :  the  moral  and  physical 
gnawing  he  felt  in  his  body  and  in  his  soul  was  the 
cannibal  hunger.  The  play  he  witnessed  last  night 
set  his  dormant  ancestry  afire,  and  I  doubt  not  that 
it  kindled,  at  the  same  time,  some  of  this  poison  in 
his  finger-tips  ...  for  you  know  that  cannibals 
often  poison  their  nails  as  they  do  their  other  weapons. 
As  he  slept,  no  doubt,  the  gnawing,  the  cannibal 
hunger,  grew  stronger  and  stronger ;  they  were 
irresistible.  And  Monsieur  Cashmere  began  eating  his 
own  fingers.  He  would  certainly  have  devoured  his 
whole  body,  but  for  the  deathly  poison,  \vhich  did  its 
work  before  he  had  time  to  do  so  ...  That  is  all, 
Monsieur  .  .  .  Poor  Esther  !  "  he  added,  as  an  after- 
thought, "  this  is  terrible  for  her — but  there  is  no 
resisting  the  voice  of  Nature,  when  she  clamours  for 
Blood." 


56  RATHER  LIKE.... 


E.   W.   HORNUNG 

TWO  OF  A  TRADE 

THERE  was  only  one  passenger  on  the  little  two- 
horse  coach  bustling  from  Clear  Corner  to 
Rosanna.  A  tall,  gaunt,  beardless  man  in  a 
wide  sombrero,  he  sat  smoking  a  cigar,  while  he 
ineffectually  tried  to  quench  the  gushing  torrent  of 
conversation  that  flowed  forth  from  the  driver's  lips. 
The  flood  included  a  high  percentage  of  profanity, 
the  remaining  minimum  being  mostly  devoted  to 
questions  about  the  old  country,  about  Government 
House  and  the  new  Governor,  and  other  equally 
meretricious  kindred  subjects.  The  passenger's  re- 
plies were  short  and  perfunctory ;  of  disgust  he 
actually  seemed  to  feel  none,  but  he  was  visibly 
annoyed  by  the  man's  constant  volley  of  questioning. 
He  did  not  look  like  a  trained  bushman  :  his  outward 
appearance  had  far  too  much  of  the  type  one  may 
occasionally  meet  with  in  Sydney — to  say  nothing  of 
the  mother-country ;  still,  he  was  evidently  no 
maudlin  new-chum,  his  neatly-couched  answers, 
however  short,  being  tinged  with  more  than  a  suspicion 
of  bush  vernacular.  He  might  have  been  an  old 
jackoroo,  back  from  a  spree  in  town  or  at  home  after 


E.  W.  HORNUNG  57 

some  exceptionally  good  season ;  or  he  might  indeed 
be  the  manager  of  some  Back-block  station  :  an 
unimpressive  man,  at  all  events,  he  gave  no  clue  to 
his  occupations,  desires  or  habits,  beyond  impressing 
upon  his  solitary  companion,  despite  his  laconic 
speech,  his  pleasant  manners,  that  pleased  no  less 
for  just  a  touch  of  mannerism. 

The  coach  was  slowly  speeding  through  what  was 
little  better  than  a  howling  desert,  when  a  horseman 
on  a  white  mare  suddenly  cantered  out  of  the  scrub, 
a  marvel  of  life  among  the  surrounding  desolation. 
The  driver  found  himself  looking  into  the  muzzle  of 
a  long-barrelled  revolver,  and,  supple  in  action,  if 
more  profane  still  in  words,  he  pulled  up  his  two 
horses,  and  awaited  the  end  of  the  usual  "  sticking- 
up  "  process.  So  far  there  was  no  unusual  feature. 
Then  there  came  a  spark  and  a  crash,  a  volley  of 
oaths  in  a  new  voice,  and  the  bushranger's  revolver 
dropped  to  the  ground.  The  flood  of  profanity 
stopped  short,  however,  and  the  speaker  regarded 
the  stage-coach  passenger  with  a  flaming  eye  that  at 
once  suggested  and  dismissed  the  idea  of  murder. 

"  Move  again  at  your  peril  !  "  he  drawled  out,  his 
other  hand  emerging  from  out  a  bulging  pocket,  and 
producing  another  vicious-looking  long-barrelled  pistol. 
"  You  don't  scare  Stingaree  with  a  baby's  trick  like 
that  !  " 

Before  he  levelled  his  weapon,  there  was  another 
flash,  another  report,  and  the  gun  joined  its  brother 
on  the  ground. 

"  Had  enough  ?  "  The  passenger's  quiet  voice 
leaped  towards  the  discomfited  bushranger.  "  Call 

yourself  Stingaree,  do  you  ?  Just  like  your  d 

cheek.  /'//  teach  you  to  stick  up  Stingaree  !  Get 
off  that  horse  !  " 


58  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Through  the  smoke,  a  long-barrelled  revolver  was 
visible  in  either  of  his  hands — the  exact  counterpart 
of  those  the  outlaw  had  tried  to  use.  His  steady 
gaze  stared  out  from  a  single  eyeglass  on  to  his  sorry 
rival,  who  had  by  now  dismounted  and  was  stealthily 
stretching  a  hand  towards  his  fallen  weapons. 

"  No  you  don't!  "  said  the  passenger  in  an  impres- 
sive whisper  that  made  the  bushranger  stand  suddenly 

still.  "  Besides,  your  guns  aren't  worth  a  d cent, 

by  now  :  I  took  care  of  that.  I  put  a  bullet  into 
their  barrels  instead  of  putting  it  through  your  skull, 
but  it's  not  too  late  yet,  if  those  hands  of  yours  don't 
go  up  at  once,  you  whipper-snapper  of  a  sham 
Stingaree  !  "  Most  of  the  nouns,  I  regret  to  say, 
were  coupled  with  adjectives  rich  in  concentrated 
profanity. 

The  discomfited  bandit  looked  meekly  on  while 
his  victor  quietly  jumped  off  the  coach,  his  eyeglass 
still  sticking  to  his  eye,  his  revolver  still  turned  danger- 
ously towards  him.  A  cool  man  evidently  and  used 
to  lightning  changes  of  fortune,  he  calmly  looked  into 
the  murderous  barrel,  without  attempting  to  disobey 
the  other's  imperious  order. 

Meanwhile  the  passenger  requested  the  dumb- 
founded driver,  in  flowery  speech,  to  leave  the  mail- 
bags  on  the  road,  and  to  drive  to  Rosanna.  Of 
hesitation  the  second  victim  showed  none,  and  he 
lost  no  time  in  complying  with  the  usual  orders, 
muttering  the  usual  oaths  as  he  did  so.  Soon  the 
coach  was  but  a  grey  speck  in  the  flying  dust,  and  the 
victorious  passenger  once  more  turned  his  attention 
to  the  luckless  bushranger. 

"  Get  hold  of  those  mail-bags,"  he  said  in  a  business- 
like voice.  The  other  meekly  obeyed,  his  captor 
taking  hold  of  the  white  mare  the  while.  As  he  was 


E.  W.  HORNUNG  59 

about  to  jump  astride,  there  was  a  double  flash  and 
a  loud  report,  and  his  long  revolvers  dropped  to  the 
ground,  smashed  to  splinters.  A  second  later,  he 
found  himself  gazing  into  a  similar  weapon,  seemingly 
produced  out  of  nowhere  by  the  bushranger,  while 
he  had  been  fumbling  with  the  bags.  In  quick  time 
the  new  conqueror  was  sitting  in  his  saddle,  his  white 
mare  having  come  back  towards  him  as  soon  as  she 
was  freed  of  her  would-be  rider. 

"  Thought  you  could  do  me,  did  you  ?  "  he  quietly 
asked  of  his  captive.  "  You  see,  I  happen  to  know 
a  bit  more  of  this  business  than  you  do,  and  when  I 
stick  up  a  coach,  I  also  keep  an  extra  pair  of  revolvers 
somewhere  about  me  .  .  .  As  to  shooting,  my  lad, 
I  don't  deny  you  can  do  some,  but  you  can't  teach 
me  any  monkey's  tricks  ...  No,  my  beauty,"  he 
called  as  the  other  was  trying  to  get  his  right  hand 
into  his  pocket,  "  it's  hands  up — or  you'll  have  a 
bullet  through  you  !  " 

The  ex-passenger  held  up  his  hands  without 
a  word ;  evidently  a  calm  man,  too,  he  did  not  even 
trouble  to  let  fly  an  oath  at  his  captor. 

"  And  you'd  better  not  try  to  impersonate  me 
again,"  the  bushranger  drawled  out,  looking  at  him 
through  an  eyeglass  dandily  stuck  before  his  eye  ; 
"  Stingaree's  going  to  teach  you  a  thing  or  two.  Do 
you  give  me  your  dying  oath  you'll  be  up  to  no  pranks, 
or  do  you  want  me  to  tie  you  up  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  came  the  reply,  "I'll  keep  quiet 
enough.  Yes,  I  swear  it,"  he  hastily  added,  as  the 
long  revolver  pointed  dangerously  towards  his  head, 
"  I  swear  it,  by  God  !  " 

"  Murder's  the  one  crime  I've  never  committed — 
but  I  shouldn't  mind  beginning  on  you,  you  second- 
rate  imitation  of  a  flashlight  sham !  And  I  shall 


60  RATHER  LIKE.... 

certainly  do  so  if  you  don't  behave.  Now  you  catch 
hold  of  these  mail-bags  you  were  kind  enough  to  get 
out  of  the  coach  for  me,  and  come  along  quietly. 

The  passenger  picked  up  the  bags,  and  both  now 
left  the  road  for  the  bush,  following  the  tracks  even 
the  rider  could  still  easily  make  out.  They  led  him 
through  mazes  of  scrub  and  pooly  glades.  The  bush- 
ranger seemed  to  find  the  way  familiar  enough,  but 
he  could  not  help  glancing  occasionally  right  or  left 
to  make  sure  of  his  tracks.  Suddenly  he  found  himself 
rolling  head  over  heels,  and  falling  right  into  a  sandy 
gully,  while  a  triumphant  shout  echoed  to  his  smarting 
ears. 

'  Well,  Mr.  would-be  Stingaree,"  rang  out  the 
passenger's  voice  in  exulting  tones,  "  have  you  got 
those  mail-bags  fixed  down  yet  ?  I  daresay  you 
think  yourself  an  expert  in  this  little  game,  but  you 
forgot  to  look  in  front  of  your  horse's  feet  this  time 
...  A  very  handy  thing,  a  couple  of  mail-bags,  for 
tripping  a  rider  .  .  .  Now  then,  hands  up,"  he  added, 
picking  up  the  revolver  the  bushranger  had  dropped 
in  his  fall. 

The  tables  were  turned  once  again,  and  the  ill- 
fated  bandit,  as  calm  as  after  his  first  defeat,  quietly 
stood  up  with  arms  outstretched  towards  the  sky. 

"  I  think  you'll  find  me  a  better  bushman  than 
you,  you  new-chummiest  ass  of  a  new-chum,"  ex- 
claimed the  present  victor.  "  I've  had  plenty  of 
occasions  to  learn  my  business,  and  I've  made  the 
name  of  Stingaree  rather  well-known,  right  down 
South  of  the  Murray,  even — you  ask  Mr.  Police 
Superintendent  Cairns — he'll  be  able  to  tell  you  a 
thing  or  two  about  me." 

"  All  right,  man,"  slowly  rejoined  the  other. 
"  Don't  get  excited  over  it,  that's  all." 


E.  W.  HORNUNG  61 

"  Right  you  are,  sonny.  Now  you  just  guide  me 
to  your  gunyah — and  you'd  better  do  it  quietly,  too," 
he  added  ominously,  the  long  revolver  glinting  fero- 
ciously in  the  slanting  sun. 

He  jumped  astride  the  white  mare.  There  was  a 
slow,  caressing  call,  and  the  ex-passenger,  in  his  turn, 
found  himself  tossed  brutally  on  to  the  sand.  The 
whole  scene  barely  took  a  few  seconds.  In  a  trice, 
the  weapon  had  once  more  changed  hands,  and  the 
bushranger's  eyeglass  was  serenely  smiling  at  his 
twice-defeated  captor. 

"  Think  you  know  all  about  this  business  ?  "  his 
gentle  scorn  drawled  out.  "  You'd  better  take  care 
and  have  a  horse  of  your  own,  before  you  start  sticking 
up  Stingaree.  There  are  circus-horses,  my  dear  fellow, 
much  worse  trained  than  Barmaid,"  and  his  left  hand 
lovingly  patted  his  mare's  delicate  neck.  "  But  this 
time,  my  friend,  I'm  going  to  tie  you  up — although 
you  deserve  a  bullet  through  your  silly  head.  Here, 
get  that  rope  that's  slung  over  a  branch — yes,  this  is 
my  gunyah — look  sharp  !  " 

The  other  meekly  obeyed,  and  submitted  to  the 
time-honoured  trick  of  the  bushrangers.  He  put  his 
foot  through  the  loop  at  one  end  of  the  rope,  threw 
the  other  to  his  captor,  and  suffered  him  to  wind  the 
coils  round  and  round.  Suddenly  there  was  a  heart- 
rending yell  .  .  . 

(By  an  unaccountable  piece  of  ill-luck,  the  MS.  here 
reaches  the  end  of  a  page,  and  unfortunately  it  has  been 
impossible  to  find  the  remaining  sheets  of  the  story. 

We  are  happy,  however,  to  inform  our  readers  that 
we  are  offering  a  prize  of  £50  a  minute  for  life  fo 
anyone  who  correctly  answers  the  question  :  "  Which  of 
them  was  Stingaree  ?  ") 


62  RATHER  LIKE.... 


E.   TEMPLE  THURSTON 

THE  FATHER  OF  BEAUTIFUL  HOPE. 

IF  you  cross  the  dark  moors  that  lie  before  you 
when  you  come  down  from  the  shaggy  peak 
of  Kickshinahangit,  up  and  above  the  steep 
valley  of  the  Ballyhum,  you  will,  after  three  hours' 
steady  walk  through  their  desolate  stillness,  look 
down  upon  the  tiny  village  of  Scrapaheap,  that 
seems  to  sleep  lazily  in  the  lap  of  the  little  river 
of  Splashum. 

They  have  a  taste  for  names  everywhere  in  Ireland, 
but  nowhere  so  strong  as  on  the  Western  coast,  not 
yet  contaminated,  for  the  most  part,  by  the  soul- 
devasting  rush  of  "  civilisation  " — the  railways  that 
kill  romance,  the  cheap  trips  that  do  away  with 
treasures,  the  cockney  invasion  that  destroys  character. 
A  little  knot  of  pink  cottages,  clustered  together  on 
either  side  of  a  hardly  visible  ribbon  that  is  proudly 
called  a  road,  enjoys  a  name  of  itself,  as  if  it  were 
a  village.  Such  a  place  was  Scrapaheap,  with  its 
hundred  odd  souls,  old  Finnerty,  the  smith,  O'Heily, 
the  publican,  a  scrubby  cobbler  and  a  few  others, 
living  God  knows  how. 

I  walked  slowly  through  the  village,  and  a  little 
further  down,  I  saw  a  priest  striding  leisurely  on, 


E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON  63 

reading  his  breviary  the  while.  Now,  knowing  the 
untrodden  ways  of  this  world,  I  felt  sure  this  was 
Father  Flanagan,  the  parish  priest,  who  certainly 
knew  more  about  the  souls  in  his  charge  than  any 
other  living  man.  So  I  walked  quietly  up  to  him. 

"  Good-morning,  Father,"  I  said. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  answered  back.  "  Shure  it's 
the  stranger  from  London  ye  are.  Tis  at  O'Heily's 
ye  are  staying,  shure  ?  'Tis  like  a  prince  he'll  treat 
ye,  though  ye'll  not  find  our  Scrapaheap  anything 
like  Ballyhumbug  or  Splashatlarge." 

He  threw  out  those  names,  I  felt,  because  I  was 
foreign  to  his  village,  and  might  be  pleased  at  his 
mentioning  one  or  two  more  or  less  fashionable  water- 
ing-places. There  is,  besides,  much  pleasure  in 
Ireland  for  that  man  who  triumphantly  flings  out 
the  Irish  names.  No  one  knows  why  this  is  so,  but 
it  remains  a  fact. 

"I'm  sure  O'Heily  and  his  wife  are  making  me 
quite  comfortable,"  I  returned,  with  an  enthusiasm 
I  am  afraid  I  did  not  entirely  feel  .  .  .  Such  is  this 
world  :  here,  if  he  but  knew,  was  I,  seeking  rest, 
hope,  and  beautiful  mystery.  With  that  damnable 
logic  of  civilisation,  I  could  not  blurt  out  my  quest 
to  this  simple  parish  priest.  "  I'm  sure  they're 
making  me  quite  comfortable,"  I  repeated,  "  but 
.  .  .  ."  There  was  hesitation  in  the  dropping  of  my 
voice,  and  Father  Flanagan  was  not  long  to  notice  it. 

"  Tis  not  ye  were  hoping  for  to  find  the  comforts 
of  a  London  hotel  at  Scrapaheap  ?  "  he  said  rather 
demurely,  with  the  faintest  suspicion  of  a  smile  playing 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

It  is  strange  how  quickly  one's  ears  accustom 
themselves  to  the  ring  of  unusual  sounds  :  by  now 
I  was  quite  ready  for  the  tinge  of  brogue  on  the  priest's 


64  RATHER  LIKE.... 

ruddy  lips.  "  Besides,"  he  hastily  added,  "  O'Heily's 
not  a  bad  fella.  .  .  .  Besides,  there's  little  Meg,  an' 
she's  always  ready,  with  the  smiling  eyes  of  her,  to 
make  any  stranger  feel  at  home." 

He  had  been  slow  to  begin,  but  now  I  could  see 
the  deepest  strings  in  the  old  man's  heart  had  been 
set  in  motion.  It  is  a  nothing— a  strange  catch  in 
the  voice,  a  twitch  of  mouth  or  eye,  a  vibration  of  the 
hand — and  the  whole  course  of  a  life  may  be  suddenly 
changed.  It  was  for  this,  moreover,  that  I  had  come 
to  this  wild  and  magnificent  part  of  the  island  ;  it  is 
excuse  or  no  excuse,  according  to  those  who  can 
judge,  that  I  was  endeavouring  to  sift  a  solemn 
mystery,  and  was  eager  to  settle  an  old  wrong.  Now, 
once  he  had  spoken  of  Meg  of  his  own  free  will,  it 
was  child's  play  for  me  to  keep  him  to  her.  .  .  *. 

'  There's  Meg,  to  be  sure,"  I  said,  a  trifle  absently. 
"  A  fine  slip  of  a  girl,  too.  .  .  .  Not  far  from  twenty, 
I  should  say." 

"  The  way  she  might  have  been  married,  too," 
he  went  on,  a  tinge  of  sadness  and  regret  mingling 
with  his  now  familiar  brogue. 

"  I  should  say  she  would  not  be  lacking  a  sweet- 
heart," I  hastily  put  in.  An  Irish  parish  priest  may 
be  told  such  things  :  he  is  like  a  grown-up  baby 
brother  who  likes  to  air  his  little  secrets,  in  response 
to  queries  from  older  young  people,  or  younger  old 
ones 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  he  plaintively  answered,  "  'twas 
a  faerie's  look  she  had  in  the  eyes  of  her,  the  sweet 
little  colleen.  An'  'tis  bewitch  she  did  young  Pat 
Flinnerty." 

"  And  quite  right,  too,"  I  hastily  added.  "  But 
you  don't  mean  to  say  you  believe  in  faeries, 
Father  ?  " 


E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON  65 

"  There's  believin'  and  believin'  :  don't  they  sow 
their  seeds  all  round  the  lives  of  us,  same  as  some 
invisible  force  that  never  ceases  pushing  us  about  ? 
It's  they  gave  Meg  her  sweetheart,  an'  it's  they  took 
him  away." 

This  was  rank  heresy  in  the  mouth  of  a  priest  ! 
Well,  I  would  taunt  him  another  time  on  the  point 
of  the  existence  of  faeries,  for  now  I  was  quite  content 
with  the  story  of  little  Meg's  unhappy  love. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  'twas  this  way.  Pat 
Flinnerty  was  as  honest  a  lad  as  Kickshinahangit 
ever  saw,  with  the  snowy  eyes  of  his.  An'  he  was 
after  earnin'  his  own  living,  too — what  with  Nalon's 
farm,  on  which  'twas  he  did  all  the  work,  and  McGuire's 
dairy.  Indade,  he  would  be  making  quite  a  good 
sum  o'  yellow  money,  and  I  knew  he  was  wanting  to 
settle  down  on  the  farm  with  a  good  colleen  for  his 
wife  .  .  ." 

"  And  little  Meg,  of  course,"  I  hazarded. 

"  Shure  and  wasn't  she  herself  afther  a-saying  of 
it  too  ?  Everybody  knew  her  little  secret,  and  didn't 
everybody  wish  her  the  very  cheeriest  happiness  ? 
.  .  .  An'  one  day — 'twas  in  May,  mind  ye,  an'  that's 
where  the  faeries  come  in — one  day,  Pat  Flinnerty 
left  Scrapaheap  and  never  came  back.  Of  course 
little  Meg  melted  the  blue  eyes  of  hers  crying,  an'  she 
came  to  see  me,  an'  to  ask  me  where  Pat  might  be. 
Now,  ye  see,  knowin'  what  I  know,  an'  all  about  its 
being  in  May,  an'  the  power  o'  the  faeries,  don't  ye 
think  I  did  well  not  to  tell  her  all  I  knew  ?  The 
telling  o'  the  truth  would  have  been  the  death  of 
her — and  she  with  the  blue  eyes  of  her  full  of  tears, 
too.  ...  So  I  was  after  a-giving  her  the  hope  I 
did'na  feel,  an'  I  told  her  Pat  had  gone  to  London  to 
arrange  about  buying  Nalon's  farm.  .  .  .  Poor  gurrll ! 

4 


66  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Shure  an'  she  believed  me  too — an'  I  don't  think  'tis 
a  great  sin  on  the  soul  of  me  ! " 

"  It's  no  sin  at  all,  Father,  no  sin  at  all,"  I  replied 
encouragingly.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it's  quite  true 
young  Pat  Flinnerty  went  over  to  London  last  May." 

"  Niver  a  day!"  exclaimed  the  priest.  "An' 
how  are  ye  coming  to  be  knowing  that  ?  " 

"  Because,"  I  answered  very  calmly,  "  I  am  his 
uncle." 

"  But  why  the  divil — no — why  on  earth  did  Pat 
leave  Scrapaheap  all  on  a  sudden — an'  without  so 
much  as  saying  good-bye,  too  ?  "  said  Father  Flanagan. 

"  That's  easily  explained,"  I  replied.  '  You  see, 
I  sent  a  man  to  fetch  him,  and  he  had  to  leave  at 
once,  in  order  not  to  miss  a  very  important  guardians' 
meeting.  But  he  wrote  to  Meg  as  soon  as  he  got  to 
London.  I  saw  the  letter — why,  he  even  gave  it  to 
me  to  post.  .  .  .  And  a  nice,  kind-hearted,  gentle- 
spirited  letter  it  was." 

"  An'  'tis  the  way  she  never  received  it.  I  tell 
ye  'tis  the  faeries,"  cried  the  priest. 

"  Impossible  !  "  I  exclaimed.  Without  reason, 
my  hand  went  to  my  breast  pocket,  and  mechanically 
drew  something  out :  it  was  a  letter — a  letter  addressed 
to  Miss  Margaret  O'Flapperhogan,  c/o  Mr.  O'Heily, 
Scrapaheap,  Bondegaldee,  Ireland.  I  let  out  a  cry  : 
'  Why,  here  it  is,  to  be  sure  !  I  must  have  posted  it, 
poche  restante,  as  the  French  say.  To  think  that  all 
this  is  my  fault  !  I  shall  never  forgive  myself." 

"  Oh,  is  that  you,  uncle  ?  "  cried  a  young  voice 
from  behind  ...  A  lad  of  about  twenty  came  up  to 
us,  leading  by  the  hand  a  blushing  peasant-girl,  in 
whom  I  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  little  Meg. 
But  how  changed  a  little  Meg  !  The  sunshine  of  love 
flowed  from  her  innocent  blue  eyes,  and  her  rosy  lips 


E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON  67 

were  wreathed  in  the  sweetest  of  girlish  smiles,  while 
all  her  being  bespoke  radiant  happiness.  What  a 
contrast  to  the  sad  and  frowning  little  Meg  I  had  left 
at  the  inn  that  very  morning  !  Then  the  young  voice 
rang  out  again  :  "  You  remember  I  asked  your  consent 
to  marry  my  Irish  sweetheart.  .  .  .  Here  she  is, 
uncle,  and  never  a  better  lass  did  anyone  set  eyes 
upon." 

Meg's  blush  was  heightened  by  now,  but  I  took 
her  hand  notwithstanding,  and  though  she  was  but  a 
peasant-girl,  and  some  of  my  friends  in  Piccadilly 
might  have  laughed  at  me,  T  gently  pressed  it  to  my 
lips.  "  Can  you  forgive  me,  Meg  ?  "  I  humbly  asked  ; 
"  how  you  must  have  suffered  !  And  all  that  was  due 
to  .  .  ." 

"  Shure,  and  didn't  Father  Flanagan  tell  me  all 
about  it  ?  "  she  gently  made  answer.  I  was  always 
thinkin'  'twas  the  faeries — ye  see,  an'  it  was  in  May 
too." 

"  Of  course  'twas  the  faeries,"  added  the  priest, 
smiling,  and  nudging  me  the  while,  "  the  faeries  took 
him  away,  and  now  they're  afther  a  bringin'  back  of 
him "...  And  his  kind  old  eyes  beamed  on  the 
blushing  and  happy  couple. 


68  RATHER  LIKE.... 


OSCAR  WILDE 

ON   MURDER  CONSIDERED  AS  A  FINE 

ART 

(An  Intended  Dialogue) 

PERSONS  :    Cecil  and  Laurence. 
SCENE  :   The  library  of  a  country-house  in  Yorkshire. 

Cecil  (leaving  the  piano  as  he  hears  Laurence  enter)  : 
My  dear  Laurence,  I  thought  you  were  never 

coming  ! 

Laurence  :  Really,  you  are  too  flattering,  my  dear 
Cecil.  I  cannot  but  feel  honoured  indeed  when 
you  insinuate  that  you  prefer  my  company  to 
that  of  Bach  or  of  Chopin — or  was  it  Wagner  you 
were  playing  ? 

Cecil :  Neither  :  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  strumming 
the  popular  airs  in  the  latest  Gaiety  comedy. 

Laurence :  My  dear  fellow,  Gaiety  comedies  are 
certainly  one  of  the  relics  of  barbarity  which  we 
do  our  best  to  keep. 

Cecil :  I  really  don't  know  about  that  :  anybody  can 
go  and  enjoy  a  musical  comedy,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  the  average  play. 


OSCAR  WILDE  69 

Laurence :  It  is  just  because  anybody,  as  you  say, 
can  enjoy  it,  that  it  is  a  relic  of  primitive  taste. 
The  things  anybody  understands  and  appreciates 
— a  weapon,  for  instance,  or  a  blow,  or  a  harsh 
cry — cannot  be  those  which  must  appeal  to  a 
cultured  mind  or  a  delicately  trained  body. 

Cecil :  There  may  be  a  certain  amount  of  truth  in 
what  you  say,  but  I  cannot  agree  with  you  to 
the  full  extent  of  your  idea. 

Laurence :  What  ?  You  mean  to  say  that  some 
things  can  appeal  equally  well  to  the  common 
and  the  cultivated,  can  delight  them  equally, 
and  equally  satisfy  the  mere  lust  for  pleasure  in 
the  one,  and  the  desire  for  beauty  in  the  other  ? 

Cecil :  Certainly,  my  dear  Laurence  :  take  murder, 
for  instance. 

Laurence :    Murder  ? 

Cecil :  Don't  look  as  if  you  were  shocked  !  Murder 
is  not  only  a  vulgar  method  of  doing  away  with 
an  enemy,  but  it  is  also,  in  the  hands  of  the  elect, 
a  fine  art  in  itself. 

Laurence  :   My  dear  Cecil ! 

Cecil :  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it,  Laurence. 
Simply  to  turn  to  modern  historical  facts,  who 
will  deny  that  the  exploits  of  the  Borgias  with 
poison  for  their  means  of  expression,  are  admir- 
able works  of  art  in  themselves  ?  Did  not  that 
arch-murderer  Cellini  weave  into  undying  master- 
pieces the  gossamer  fantasies  of  his  brain  and  the 
blood-stained  metal  that  his  cunning  hands  could 
bear  no  longer  ?  Who  can  deny  that  Catherine 
of  Medici  created  an  immortal  symphony  of  blood, 
the  echoes  of  which  are  still  murmuring  all 
through  the  silent  corridors,  the  projecting  turrets, 
and  the  gilded  banqueting  halls  of  the  Louvre  ? 


70  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Do  you  count  for  nothing  the  scarlet  tragedy  of 
Monaldeschi  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  his  sovereign, 
proud  Christine  of  Sweden — cannot  you  see  the 
abject  wretch  praying  for  his  life,  while  his  queen, 
despising  his  cowardly  appeals,  gives  the  posted 
assassins  the  sign  they  have  agreed  upon,  and 
the  treacherous  ambassador  is  left  to  writhe  in  his 
own  blood — a  black  dot  on  a  purple  sea,  in  the 
great  gaunt  library  of  Fontainebleau,  whose  glades 
are  ever  visited  with  his  ghost,  even  as  his  useless 
coat  of  mail  may  still  be  seen  just  where  he  fell  ? 
Who  can  think  without  reverence  of  another 
great  queen,  *he  wistful  Catherine  of  Russia,  who 
could  so  exquisitely  modulate  the  banal  song  of 
love — and  death,  on  the  persons  of  courtiers  and 
courtesans  who  took  her  fancy — for  a  day  ?  Ivan, 
well  named  the  Terrible,  was  a  fiend,  of  course, 
but  there  remains  a  charming  sensation  of  over- 
powering art  in  the  blows  he  dealt.  .  .  . 

Laurence :  I  do  not  pretend  to  deny  the  morbid 
charm  of  all  these  instances. 

Cecil :  My  dear  fellow,  no  charm  can  be  morbid  :  it 
can  never  be  anything  but  charming. 

Laurence :  But  you  yourself  must  allow  that  they 
all  relate  to  royal  or  exalted  personages — that 
they  all  occurred  at  least  two  centuries  ago — 
and  outside  England.  You  cannot  seriously 
contend  that  murder  may  ever  be,  to  us,  a  form 
of  art,  like  poetry  or  music  ? 

Cecil :  Your  objections,  my  dear  Laurence,  do  not 
amount  to  much,  after  all.  Even  everyday  men 
and  women,  in  our  own  times,  and  in  our  own 
"  civilised  "  country,  may  attain  to  some  art- 
tistic  ability  in  murder  :  take  the  case  of  Waine- 
wright — as  an  illustration :  you  recollect  he 


OSCAR  WILDE  71 

poisoned  his  uncle,  his  wife's  mother,  his  sister- 
in-law  and  a  number  of  other  people,  at  whose 
hands  he  had  never  received  anything  but  kind- 
ness. I  will  not  dwell  on  these  facts,  beyond 
remarking  that  Wainewright  was — and  is  now 
recognised  by  all — as  an  artist :  his  prose  de- 
lighted Charles  Lamb,  and  his  pictures  are  none  too 
pale  a  reflection  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's  own. 
But  what  I  insist  upon  is  the  singular  point  that 
art,  in  the  person  of  Wainewright,  also  found  its 
expression — and  truly  a  masterful  expression  it  was 
— in  the  most  subtle  shades  of  poisoning — which 
proves  beyond  a  doubt  that  murder,  in  the  hands 
of  true  artists,  is  quite  as  rich  a  material  as 
marble,  paper,  or  words. 

Laurence  :  I  admit  you  to  have  proved  your  case  as  to 
poisoning — but  as  to  that  only.  Your  only 
modern  example,  and  the  most  illustrious  of 
your  historical  ones,  only  refer  to  poison.  Where 
is  the  art  in  the  modern  methods  of  doing  away 
with  human  life  ? 

Cecil :  My  dear  Laurence,  I  am  glad  I  have  been  able 
to  convince  you  of  the  truth  of  my  proposition.  .  . 

Laurence  :    Of  your  paradox. 

Cecil :  If  you  like  :  a  paradox  is  but  a  truism,  bril- 
liantly clad.  And  now  let  me  pursue  my  demon- 
stration. First  of  all,  you  must  observe  that 
murder  has  never  been  so  plentiful,  in  spite  of 
Scripture,  Religion,  and  morals,  as  it  is  nowadays. 

Laurence  :  Really  ?  I  should  have  thought  that  in 
the  good  old  times  you  just  now  referred  to,  when 
the  Borgias  practised  their  .  .  .  art.  .  .  . 

Cecil :  You  only  look  at  the  surface  of  things, 
Laurence.  No,  believe  me,  murder  has  never  yet 
had  such  a  wide  scope  for  its  activities — not  even 


72  RATHER  LIKE.... 

in  the  bygone  days  of  Nero  or  Caligula.  As  you 
yourself  remarked,  we  have  modern  methods  of 
dismissing  human  life  :  murder,  like  every  other 
earthly  thing,  is  a  ceaseless  evolution. 

Laurence:  But  what  do  you  call  the  "modern 
methods  ?  " 

Cecil :  That  is  precisely  what  I  am  coming  to.  First 
— though  not  foremost — I  may  mention  colon- 
isation. .  .  . 

Laurence  :     My  dear  fellow  !     Colonisation — murder  ? 

Cecil:  Certainly.  .  .  "A  rose  by  any  other  name...." 
Can  you  find  a  better  one  for  the  subtle  art  that 
brings  the  white  man  to  the  wilds  of  Africa,  to 
destroy  the  indolent  existence  of  fellow  men, 
(although  black)  ?  He  laughs  at  their  ignorance, 
derides  their  faith,  plays  havoc  with  their  most 
cherished  beliefs — and  was  wont  to  make  use  of 
their  activity  by  converting  them  into  slaves. 
This  was  immoral,  of  course ;  so  now  he  kills  them. 
.  .  .  My  dear  Laurence,  I  shudder  whenever  a 
foreigner  denies  the  English  an  artistic  sense  :  we 
have  proved  to  the  whole  world  that  we  have  this 
particular  branch  of  art  much  more  highly 
developed  than  any  other  nation,  excepting, 
perhaps,  the  Japanese. 

Laurence  :    Have  you  any  more  of  these  '  modern  ' 
methods  ? 

Cecil :  Certainly.  I  may  mention  war,  though  I  do 
not  wish  to  dwell  too  long  on  this  subject,  which 
has  been  too  much  talked  of  already.  Of  course 
war  is  as  old  as  mankind,  but  no  one  can  deny 
that  the  modern  methods,  and  especially  the 
modern  weapons,  have  immeasurably  added  to 
its  power,  its  horror,  and  its  glow.  These  are 
three  intrinsically  artistic  qualities  :  and  anybody 


OSCAR  WILDE  73 

with  the  faintest  sense  of  art  must  acknowledge 
that  the  slaying  of  hundreds,  or  of  thousands,  in 
a  flash  of  light,  a  roar,  and  a  stroke,  contains  an 
extraordinary  aesthetic  thrill — as  does  the  drop- 
ping of  bombs  from  an  airship,  or  the  singular 
combat  of  two  knights-errant  of  these  days,  astride 
on  their  aerial  chargers.  .  .  .  But  I  will  not 
develop  this  argument  to  its  full  length  :  you 
must  have  grasped  its  unanswerable  force  .  .  . 
Indeed,  I  often  maintain  that  war  only  goes  on 
existing,  or  menacing,  because  it  appeals  so 
violently  to  the  primeval  artistic  instincts  of 
man. 

Laurence :  Please  continue,  my  dear  Cecil,  you  quite 
overwhelm  me. 

Cecil:  Next  to  these — may  I  say  "wholesale"? — 
methods,  I  would  mention  those  practised  by  our 
bred-in-the-bone  criminals,  our  social  dregs,  them 
whom  our  neighbours  call  "  apaches  "...  Nay, 
do  not  start,  Laurence  :  the  apache,  whatever 
the  stench  of  his  guilty  conscience  and  unholy 
body,  the  apache  is  an  artist  at  heart !  M. 
Tristan  Bernard  has  most  ingeniously  studied 
his  psychology,  although  I  fear  he  may  have  left 
out  some  very  interesting  possibilities :  there 
are  two  fields  of  activity  for  the  artistic  cravings 
of  his  soul — love  and  murder.  These  generally 
are  closely  allied,  as  the  keenly  observed  sketches 
of  poor  Charles-Louis  Philippe,  and  of  M.  Charles 
Henry  Hirsch  prove  without  a  doubt.  .  .  .  There 
is  poetry,  my  dear  Laurence,  in  the  kiss  a  dastard 
apache  imprints  upon  the  lusty,  rouge-besmeared 
lips  of  his  wanton  mistress,  and  there  is  poetry 
in  the  death-stroke  he  deals  his  unlucky  rivals. 
Not  only  is  there  poetry,  Laurence,  but  you  must 


74  RATHER  LIKE.... 

feel  as  I  do,  that  that  kiss,  that  that  blow,  are 
poetry  in  themselves — of  the  same  artistic  value 
as  the  kisses  Paris  bestowed  upon  Helen,  as  the 
blows  Pyrrhus  struck  the  faithless  son  of  Priam. 

Laurence  :  You  quite  convince  me,  my  dear  fellow — 
but  please  go  on. 

Cecil :  The  medical  profession,  too,  may  be  said  to 
harbour  a  certain  amount  of  artistic  ability  in 
the  domain  of  murder.  Moliere  and  Lesage — to 
say  nothing  of  Dickens — already  recognised  the 
possibilities  qf  the  calling,  and  Doctor  Sangrado 
assuredly  owes  his  success  to  the  whimsical 
fantasy  he  tickles  in  us  all.  But  in  our  own 
days,  when  every  doctor  is  (at  least,  he  will  tell 
you  so)  a  man  of  science,  can  you  not  feel  the 
artistic  thrill  of  administering  an  anaesthetic  or  of 
performing  the  simplest  surgical  operation,  that 
of  appendicitis,  for  instance  ?  Why,  even  the 
diagnosis  of  a  case  is  replete  with  the  subtle  mur- 
murings  of  art :  to  feel  a  man's  pulse,  to  look  at 
his  eyes,  to  tap  his  chest — and  to  give  a  verdict  of 
life  or  death  (in  most  cases  erroneous,  of  course) 
must  give  one  the  same  superhuman  thrill  as 
doubtless  the  noble  cardinal  Ximenes  felt  when 
he  held  a  victim's  doom  in  the  droop  of  his  eyelids 
or  the  twist  of  his  mouth  .  .  . 

Chemists,  too,  may  introduce  something  of  the 
same  sensation  into  their  otherwise  monotonous 
calling — by  giving  strychnine  instead  of  soda 
bicarbonate,  for  instance.  .  .  .  But  this,  of  course, 
comes  under  a  heading  already  discussed,  and 
assented  to  by  you. 

Laurence  :  Oh  !  I  have,  by  now,  quite  come  over  to 
your  opinion,  my  dear  Cecil. 


OSCAR  WILDE  75 

Cecil :  In  that  case,  it  is  perhaps  useless  for  me  to 
exhaust  the  number  of  instances  1  might  other- 
wise furnish  you  with.  Still,  I  cannot  omit 
mentioning  meat-packers  as  characteristically 
modern  artists  in  the  destruction  of  human  life, 
and  I  am  sure  Mr.  Upton  Sinclair  agrees  with  me 
in  this  respect.  Practically  all  large  manufactur- 
ers may  be  included  in  the  same  class,  and  a 
good  many  smaller  ones— without  forgetting  most 
of  our  essentially  modern  business-men,  financiers, 
engineers,  inventors,  sportsmen,  jugglers  and 
clowns  of  all  descriptions.  .  .  .  And  now  let  us 
go  for  a  walk  in  the  garden.  I  have  talked  too 
long,  and  must  smoke  a  cigarette,  whose  wreaths 
of  silver  grey  may  catch  the  slanting  rays  of  the 
fireless  moon.  .  .  .  Come  !  Let  us  watch  her 
smile  ! 


76  RATHER  LIKE.... 


G.    K.    CHESTERTON 

WHAT'S  MADDENING  ABOUT  MAN 

IF  I  am  made  to  state  abstractedly  what  good  there 
is  in  man,  I  stop  practically  as  soon  as  I  begin, 
because  very  little  remains  to  be  stated  after 
I  have  said  "  his  ideals."  And  this  is  a  thing  every- 
body must  agree  upon,  even  Smith  or  Jones,  who  will 
probably  reply  that  they  have  no  ideals  :  the  obvious 
retort  to  their  argument  is,  of  course,  that  they  have 
no  good  in  them.  Now,  there  are  two  things,  and 
two  things  only,  that  go  to  the  composition  of  our 
human  essence :  good  and  evil.  Lord  Shuffiegold 
would  deduce  that  evil  makes  about  nine-tenths  of 
the  average  man.  And  he  would  be  quite  right. 
But  Bishop  Heartson  would  equally  deduce  that  evil 
only  constitutes  one  tenth  of  his  human  brethren. 
And  he  would  be  quite  right  too.  This  seeming  contra- 
diction is  most  easily  bridged  over  if  one  will  but 
remember  that  boundaries  never  divide  :  they  unite. 
And  this  it  is,  precisely,  that  brings  us  to  what  is 
maddening  about  man  :  the  fact  that  he  has  it  in 
his  power  to  conciliate  good  and  evil,  and  in  the  vast 
majority  of  cases,  resolutely  refuses  even  to  think  of 
doing  so. 


G.  K.  CHESTERTON  77 

It  is  not  the  negation  of  good  that  is  evil,  because, 
if  there  generally  is  one  sort  of  good,  there  may  be 
about  a  hundred  million  sorts  of  negation  to  it,  only 
one  of  which  is  positively  evil.  We  cannot  call  a  thing 
a  failure,  simply  because  it  has  not  been  good.  A 
burglar  who  fails  in  an  attempt  to  break  into  a  house 
has  done  no  evil ;  yet  who  will  say  he  therefore  has 
done  good  ?  In  the  like  manner,  a  saint  who  fails 
to  convert  a  sinner  has  done  no  good  ;  yet  who 
would  dream  of  saying  he  therefore  has  done  evil  ? 
That  is  my  point,  though  I  have  never  tested  the 
efficacy  of  not  doing  evil  or  of  not  doing  good.  What 
I  mean  is,  that  all  men  should  make  up  their  minds 
to  do  something — anything,  be  it  burgling  or  convert- 
ing sinners — instead  of  adopting  the  strictly  negative 
(and  usual)  rule,  of  not  doing  something,  whereby  they 
believe  to  change  this  rollicking  world  of  ours  into 
something  like  a  combination  of  Sunday-school  texts 
and  rule-of -three.  All  men  should  decide  to  leave 
the  filthy  swamp  of  I'd-better-not,  and  revel  in  the 
delightful  glades  of  Have-a-try. 

Man  may  be  defined (1)  as  an  ineradicable  com- 
pound of  harmless  lunacy  and  savage  virtue.  Well, 
to  get  this  many-sided  and  generally  ignored  business 
over,  let  it  be  said  at  once  that  the  gravest  defect  in 
man  is  not  his  lunacy :  he  is  not  half  lunatic  enough. 
Surely  no  lunatic  would  allow  thousands  of  fellow- 
creatures  to  remain  without  a  roof,  while  hundreds 
of  others  are  unemployed,  while  acres  of  building- 
plots  go  begging,  and  tons  of  timber  and  iron  flit 
useless  to  the  scrap-heap.  But  that  is  precisely  what 
man  does  allow.  Lunacy  therefore  is  not  half  enough 
developed  in  man  ;  it  is  his  lunacy  that  puts  him 
on  to  the  track  of  doing  things,  but  it  is  his  savage 

(i)  He  may  be  so  defined,  but  on  the  other  hand  he  may  not.    (Ed.) 


78  RATHER  LIKE.... 

virtue  that  strictly  arrests  him  in  the  very  nick  of 
time,  forbidding  him  to  move  his  little  finger,  lest  he 
do  evil.  That  is  the  whole  question  in  a  nutshell. 

What  is  common  to  all  men  is  not  their  vulgarity, 
but  their  unwholesome  fear  of  acting.  The  favourite 
occupation  of  a  man,  nowadays,  would  seem  to  loaf 
in  a  public  square  while  some  excited  females  attempt 
to  mob  a  policeman  ;  this  negative  spirit  is  merely 
the  product  of  civilisation.  The  civilised  man — that 
theoretical  and  utterly  impossible  blend  of  two  in- 
compatible things,  civilisation  and  man — the  civilised 
man  is,  of  course,  neither  civilised  nor  a  man.  He  is 
no  longer  a  man,  being  content  to  become  a  sleeper — 
and  he  is  not  yet  civilised,  having  only  reached  the 
state  of  laziness.  Mr.  Kipling  tells  the  story  of  Ung, 
the  artist  of  the  stone  age,  who  deceived  his  fellows 
into  thinking  he  worked  as  hard  as  they ;  strictly 
speaking,  however,  this  is  an  anachronism  :  Ung  did 
not  live  in  the  stone-age.  He  lives  in  the  XXth 
century,  and  his  name  is  Lever,  Lyons,  Whistler  or 
Lipton.  It  is  this  spirit  of  de-humanised  and  in- 
complete civilisation  that  prompts  so  many  young 
men  (who  mostly  call  themselves  "  gentlemen's  sons," 
thereby  accentuating  the  difference  between  a  gentle- 
man and  a  gentleman's  son)  to  seek  Government 
employment,  or  at  least  Government  office.  Now  it 
is,  of  course,  the  characteristic  prerogative  of  any 
Government  to  do  nothing,  or  at  any  rate  as  little  as 
possible.  This  is  precisely  the  quality  that  appeals 
so  strongly  to  our  gentlemen's  sons,  and  urges  them  to 
leave  the  active  and  shameful  life  of  a  merchant  or  a 
squire,  and  to  take  up  the  void  and  brilliant  career 
of  a  statesman  or  a  statesman's  clerk. 

Before  setting   forth  the  methods  by  which  the 
rapid  progress  of  what  I  shall  call  the  non-acting 


G.  K.  CHESTERTON  79 

epidemic  might  be  arrested,  let  me  answer  an  objec- 
tion which  has  several  times  been  pitted  against  me. 
"  Brown  and  Jones,"  you  say,  "  seek — and  ultimately 
mid — Government  employment.  Well,  after  all,  so 
did  Milton  and  Sir  Henry  Rider  Haggard."  This  is 
all  very  well  as  far  as  it  goes,  but  I  am  afraid  it  does 
not  go  very  far. (1)  Nobody  defends  madness  on 
the  grounds  that  Nietzsche  and  Maupassant  went 
mad  ;  no  one  admires  murder  as  a  career,  for  the 
showy  reason  that  Benvenuto  Cellini  was  a  murderer. 
Milton,  I  contend,  may  have  been  a  statesman — and 
so  is  Brown  or  Tomkinson  ;  nevertheless,  Brown  or 
Tomkinson  do  not  happen  to  be  poets.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  no  objection  could  be  better  chosen  to  prove 
my  point,  than  one  which  gives  a  poet  as  an  illustra- 
tion. A  poet  is  precisely  a  man  who  does  (from  the 
Greek  iroUtv,  to  do);  a  statesman,  or  for  that  matter, 
the  average  gentleman's  son,  is  a  man  who  doesn't. 

"  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  says 
a  proverb.  Now  proverbs,  of  course,  are  mostly  lies, 
and  this  one  is  no  exception  to  the  rule,  at  least  in 
our  times.  Formerly,  no  doubt,  the  world  was  full 
of  virtuous  people  who  did  their  level  best,  to  sow  the 
divine  seed  of  good  in  the  fertile  garden  of  the  Future. 
Nowadays,  we  only  meet  (besides  hot-headed  females 
trampling  the  blowing  plants)  sickly  enthusiasts 
whose  one  and  only  care  is  that  no  seed  of  evil  should 
be  mixed  with  those  already  sown  :  not  one  of  them 
thinks  of  watering  the  beds.  The  evident  result  is 
that  all  the  good  sown  by  our  fathers  dies  in  its  growth, 
while  no  new  seeds  are  sown  for  our  children.  The 
modern  version  of  the  proverb  therefore  ought  to  be  : 
"  Too  much  unto  the  day  is  the  good  thereof." 

(i) — Certainly  not  in  the  case  of  Milton,  but  as  far  as  South  Africa 
with  Sir  H.R.H.    (Ed.) 


8o  RATHER  LIKE.... 

There  are  only  two  methods  of  living  that  are  now 
conceivable  :  activity  and  laziness.  When  my  tired 
friends  have  worked  too  hard  (or  when  they  believe 
they  have  worked  too  hard,  which  amounts  to  the 
same  thing)  they  join  the  army  of  the  Unemployed. 
When  a  man  has  been  lazy  sufficiently  long  he  (some- 
times) tries  work  by  way  of  taking  a  change.  Few, 
however,  have  realised  that  it  is  possible  to  combine 
these  opposed  principles  of  activity  and  laziness ; 
it  is  just  this  combination,  in  the  appropriate  pro- 
portion, which  is  called  success.  Preferring  to  do 
nothing  is  called  (according  to  social  position)  loafing, 
idling,  or  being  rich ;  being  unceasingly  active  is 
known  as  slaving,  swatting  or  muddling  ;  it  is  only  by 
taking  the  right  percentage  of  both  that  a  man  may 
make  his  life  successful. 

The  reasons  for  believing  in  success  are  probably 
as  silly  as  those  for  any  other  human  belief ;  never- 
theless, it  is  a  thing  the  average  man  does  believe  in. 
When  Jones  rushes  out  of  bed  because  his  baby  is 
driving  him  mad,  he  already  sees  his  heir  installed 
in  all  that  delightful  combination  of  luxury  and 
happiness  which  we  call  success.  Every  boy,  whatever 
the  thickness  of  his  skull  and  the  blindness  of  his 
nature  towards  the  future,  dreams  of  himself  as  a 
pirate  king,  or  a  'bus  conductor,  or  a  station-master, 
or  a  south-sea  sailor,  or  a  Klondyke  treasure-seeker ; — 
his  dreams  are  thousand-masked  :  the  face  beneath 
the  mask  is  but  one,  the  half-Janus  face  of  success. 

I  frankly  say,  therefore,  that  success  seems  to  be 
the  fundamental  aim  of  man's  life — which  is  a  very 
good  thing  in  its  way.  But  the  maddening  part  of  it 
is  that  the  average  man  does  not  know  what  he  means 
by  success.  For  some  it  is  a  house  in  Mayfair,  with 
a  few  country  seats  in  Devonshire,  Wales  and  Scotland  ; 


G.  K.  CHESTERTON  81 

for  others,  it  is  a  meal  of  fried  fish  and  onions  twice  a 
day.  The  notion  of  success,  let  it  be  said  at  once,  is 
not  material ;  it  is  purely  in  his  mental  self  that  a  man 
may  be  successful.  That  is  the  root  of  all  evil :  the 
average  man  is  afraid  to  do,  because  he  is  afraid 
some  action  of  his  may  spoil  his  "  success."  Whereas 
the  truth  is  that  only  by  doing  may  he  satisfy  his 
innermost  craving  for  that  "  success "  which  no 
Vanderbilt,  perhaps,  may  call  his,  while  the  poorest 
crossing-sweep  may  enjoy  it. 


82  RATHER  LIKE.. 


W.   W.   JACOBS 

THE  YELLOW   PIPE 

1NGRATITOOD,"  said  the  night-watchman,  re- 
filling his  long  clay  pipe  from  the  pouch  I 
had.  handed  over  to  him,  "  ingratitood's  about 
the  cheapest  thing  in  the  'uman  'eart,  an'  I've  met 
with  a  good  deal  of  it  in  my  time,  too.  There's 
some  as'll  tell  you  a  feller  never  forgets  a  good 
turn  ;  but  my  'sprayience  is  just  the  reverse.  I've 
'ad  friends,  mind  yer — I  dessay  I've  'ad  more 
friends  'n  any  other  man  in  my  perfeshin  ;  'an  what 
I  'aven't  clone  'em  in  the  way  of  good  turns  ain't 
worth  doin'  any'ow.  There's  Peter  Russet,  f'r  in- 
stance :  a  'ole  bloomin'  summer,  w'ile  'e  was  out  of  a 
job,  I  went  an'  used  to  stand  'im  a  pot  at  the  "  Boat- 
swain's Rest  "  every  evenin' — yes,  an'  jolly  'ot  it  was, 
I  remember.  An'  now  Peter  jus'  cuts  me  in  the 
street.  'Owever,  that's  neither  'ere  nor  there  ;  w'at 
I  wanted  ter  tell  yer's  quite  another  story.  Maybe 
you  remember  a  young  chap  as  was  often  knockin' 
about— Nat  Wilkins  'is  name  was,  and  'e  called  'isself 
a  stevedore,  although  I  never  seed  'im  do  a  stroke  of 
work,  mind  yer.  'E  was  pretty  flush  of  'is  cash,  too, 
an'  I  can  recollect  'im  standin'  me  an'  ole  Sam  Turner 


W.  W.  JACOBS  83 

an'  Tom  Barker  an'  a  few  other  chaps  a  pint  of  ale  at 
the  "  Admiral's  Cabin."  Well,  one  day  'e  come  up  to 
me  in  the  arternoon — sort  o'  quiet  arternoon  it  was, 
an'  I  'adn't  nothin'  hextra  speshul  to  do,  on  account 
of  a  new  policeman  as  was  on  'is  beat  outside  the 
wharf,  an'  kept  a  look-out  as  would  'ave  been  dis- 
graceful to  a  respectable  watchman  like  me. 

"  Good  arternoon,"  'e  says,  pleasant-like  enough, 
twiddlin'  'is  cane  like  a  young  fop  outside  a  music-'all. 

"  'Ulloa,"  I  answers,  without  letting  'im  see  'ow 
pleased  I  was.  "  An'  ow's  trade  ter-day  ?  'Ave  yer 
sold  any  o'  those  patent  dog-biscuits  o'  yourn,  or 
some  o'  your  'eat-proof  sardines  ?  " 

"  Pretty  fair,"  'e  calls  back.  "  I  say,  though, 
'ave  you  'alf  an  hour  to  spare  ?  I  wish  to  consult 
you,"  'e  says,  "  on  a  matter  o'  some  importance." 

"  Well,"  says  I  "it  all  depends.  You  know  a 
watchman's  job  is  to  remain  on  the  premises — an'  if 
I  was  caught.  ..." 

Next  moment,  though,  I  was  wishin'  as  I'd  never 
spoken  a  word. 

"  Look  'ere,"  says  'e,  "I  was  thinkin'  of  a  quiet 
gin  an'  bitters  at  the  '  Admiral's  Cabin  '  ;  but  o' 
course,  if  yer  duty  compels  yer  to  remain  sweatin' 
in  the  sun,  I  can  only  congratulate  your  employer  on 
'is  hexceptionally  conscienshus  staff  "...  An'  a  lot 
more  'igh-sounding  words  'e  let  go  at  me — an1  the 
thermometer  about  ninety  in  the  shade,  too.  Dis- 
gustin,'  I  call  it — an'  all  because  I'd  been  fool  enough 
to  put  in  a  word  of  caushun  at  the  beginnin'.  So  I 
ups  and  says  : 

"  If  it's  only  'alf  an  hour's  job,  I'm  your  man." 

'  Wot  about  that  employer  o'  yourn  ?  "  'e  shouts 
back.  '  You  don't  seem  so  devoted  to  'im  as  yer 
ought  to  be." 


84  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  'Tain't  to  be  expected  of  a  feller  in  my  station," 
says  I.  "  Besides,  I'm  a  night-watchman — an'  I'm 
always  ready  to  do  a  friend  a  good  turn  when  I  gets 
the  hopportunity." 

"  Wile  all  this  talk  'ad  been  going  on,  I'd  got  into 
my  coat — I  was  in  my  shirt-sleeves  on  account  of  the 
'eat — an'  I  was  at  'is  side  in  'alf  a  jiffy.  Well,  'e 
went  on  jawin'  like  that  for  at  least  five  minutes,  an' 
I  told  the  p'liceman  to  keep  'is  eyes  extra-open  for 
about  'alf  an  hour — not  that  I  'old  with  p'licemen,  mind 
yer,  as  a  general  rule,  but  there  is  cases  when  a  man's 
obliged  to  change  'is  principles  accordin'  to  necessity, 
as  the  German  Impror  said  w'en  'e  tried  to  collar 
Belgium. 

We  was  quietly  sitting  in  the  saloon  o'  the  "  Ad- 
miral's Cabin,"  over  a  decent-sized  glass  o'  gin,  when 
Nat  Wilkins  suddenly  takes  a  beautiful  leather  case 
out  of  'is  trousers  pocket  and  puts  it  under  my  nose. 

"  See  that  ?  "  'e  cries,  as  proud  as  a  'en  with  a 
lot  of  new-'atched  chicks. 

"  O'  course  I  see  it,"  I  answers  back,  "  but  w'at 
is  it  ?  " 

"  You  open  it,  an'  'ave  a  look.  You  never  saw 
such  a  beauty,  I'll  bet  my  hat." 

Well,  I  opens  the  case,  an'  I'm  blazed  if  it  wasn't 
a  pipe.  I'd  been  expectin'  a  di'mond  necklace,  at 
least,  by  the  looks  of  'im  :  but  there,  'tain't  no  good 
'avin'  insight  into  the  'uman  characture  wi'  some, 
fellers — they  allus  manages  ter  disappint  yer  in  the 
end  .  .  .  Well,  any'ow,  'ere  was  Nat  Wilkins  an'  me 
lookin'  at  the  bloomin'  pipe,  w'en  I  just  catches  the 
gaze  of  'Enery  Walker  speakin'  to  the  landlord  in  the 
taproom.  'E  also  'appened  to  catch  sight  o'  me,  an' 
in  'e  comes,  smilin'  like  a  'ot-cross  bun  :  I  allus  ap- 
appreciates  true  comradeship  when  I  sees  it  in  a  chap  : 
that's  w'ere  I  kin  respect  'uman  nature. 


W.  W.  JACOBS  85 

"  Good .  -irternoon,  Mr  Wilkins,"  'e  says,  without 
so  much  as  lookin'  at  me. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  answers  Nat.  "  Lucky  thing, 
your  just  popping  in  :  you  an'  your  friend  'ere  " — 
meanin'  me — "  might  do  a  good  stroke  of  business 
for  me,  an'  lose  nothin'  by  it,  either." 

"  O'  course,"  says  'Enery  Walker.  "  I  don't  want 
nothin'  better  .  .  .  An'  a  'ot  day  it  is,  too,  my  doctor 
recommendin'  to  keep  my  throat  moistened — says 
it's  a  real  pan  o'  sea,  that." 

Nat,  Wilkins  ordered  some  more  drink,  an'  'Enery 
'ad  just  about  finished  'is  straight  off  when  the  pipe 
was  shown  round  once  more  for  inspeckshun.  'Enery 
Walker  was  the  first  to  open  'is  mouth,  a  naterally 
large  mouth  'e's  got,  with  rather  a  'anging  upper-lip. 
So  'e  speaks  out : 

"  Wot's   it    made    of?     Barley-sugar?" 

"  Yer  not  serious,  Mr.  W'alker,"  says  Nat.  Why, 
that's  a  beautiful  meerschaum  pipe,  bran'  new,  and 
delicately  coloured.  You  don't  find  a  pipe  like  that 
twice  in  a  lifetime.  Worth  about  ten  pounds,  a  pipe 
like  that." 

"  Ten  pounds  ?  "  I  edjackerlated.  "  Why,  'GO'S 
the  bloke  as  is  goin'  to  give  ten  pounds  for  a  smoke  ? 
If  I  'ad  ten  pounds  to  spare,  I'd  sooner  do  somethin* 
intelligent  with  the  tin.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  put  in  'Enery  Walker,  "  'e'd  come  and 
spend  it  at  a  nice  quiet  place  like  this,  with  a  pal 
or  two  like  me  to  'elp  'im—  wouldn't  yer,  Tom  ?  " 

I  glared  at  'im  then,  seeing'  as  'e  might  'ave  so 
much  as  passed  the  time  o'  day  with  me  when  e' 
came  in,  espeshully  considerin'  as  I  was,  so  to  speak, 
'is  'ost.  But  'e  didnt'  seem  to  take  no  'eed  of  my 
indignation,  an'  went  on  jawing  at  Nat  Wilkins. 

The  long  an'  short  of  the  matter  was  that  'e 


86  RATHER  LIKE.... 

proposed  we  should  try  an'  sell  the  pipe  ;.  'e  even 
went  so  far  as  to  drop  'is  price  to  height  pounds,  an' 
offered  us  a  commission  of  ten  per  cent — rather 
'andsome,  you  may  think  it.  I  thought  it  was  a  good 
job  too,  but  'Enery  Walker  made  no  end  of  a  fuss 
about  the  'ole  affair,  sayin'  'e  never  'oped  to  be  able 
to  get  rid  of  the  thing,  'aving  no  millionaire  in  'is 
immediate  surroundings — in  spite  of  which,  in  the 
end,  'e  took  the  pipe  with  'im. 

Wen  I  got  back  to  my  w'arf,  the  p'liceman  'ad 
disappeared,  an'  there  was  a  suspishus-lookin'  hindi- 
vidooal  trotting  about  the  place,  'oo  couldn't  explain 
'is  business  in  anythin'  like  satisfactory  terms.  O' 
course,  me  not  bein'  a  feller  to  create  speshul  diffi- 
culties, I  just  simply  saw  'im  back  in  the  ferryman's 
boat,  an'  prepared  for  a  bit  of  a  nap — you  see,  it  was 
quite  dark  by  then,  an'  nothin'  was  likely  to  'appen. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  nothin'  did  'appen,  which  just 
shows  'ow  useless  it  is  to  try  an'  be  conscienshus  with 
your  employer. 

The  wery  next  mornin',  just  as  I  was  sittin'  down 
to  a  quiet  breakfast,  I  'card  a  knockin'  at  my  front 
door,  an'  before  even  I  'ad  time  to  go  an'  see  what 
was  the  matter,  there  was  'Enery  Walker  come  rushin' 
in  an'  gaspin',  like  a  feller  as  'as  taken  leave  of  'is 
senses. 

"  W7ot  d'j^er  mean,"  says  I,  "  disturbin'  a  quiet 
chap  like  me  at  this  time  o'  day  ?  I  need  my  rest,  I 
do,  after  a  sleepless  night  spent  in  the  service  of  my 
employer." 

"  Never  mind  your  rest,"  'e  blurts  out.  '  The 
pipe  as  Nat  Wilkins  give  us  yesterday  .  .  .  ' 

"  'Ere,  old  on,"  says  I,  "  Nat  didn't  give  me  no  pipe. 
You  was  the  chap  as  took  it." 

"  Well,  any'ow,  it's  gone  !  " 


W.  W.  JACOBS  87 

"  Gone  !  "  I  edjackerlates,  all  the  blood  rushin' 
out  o'  my  face  in  a  single  instant.  "  You  don't  mean 
ter  tell  me  yer've  lost  a  tin-pound  meerschaum  pipe  ?  " 

"  No,  I  ain't  lost  it,  you  bet,"  'e  answers  back. 
"  Some  bloke  must  'ave  pinched  it  out  o'  the  case. 
I  thought  perhaps  you  might  'ave  collered  it,  for  a 
practical  joke  .  .  .  .  " 

"  Practical  joke  be  bio  wed  !  "  says  I,  "I  ain't  a 
chap  to  do  a  silly  turn  like  that.  Anyway,  there's 
ten  pounds  gone  for  yer,  an'  ten  bob  for  me." 

"  Yer  means  four  pounds  eight  for  each  on  us, 
Tom,"  'e  shouts  back.  "  Remember,  'e  gave  the 
thing  to  both  of  us,  without  naming  anyone  in 
speshul." 

"Look  'ere,"  says  I,  "  'oo  d'you  take  me  for? 
You  go  an'  lose  the  bloomin'  pipe,  an'  make  me  lose 
my  commishun — an'  you've  got  the  cheek  to  talk  of 
four  pounds.  Yer  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  ! " 

"  It's  no  use  kicking  up  a  row,  at  all  events," 
says  'e.  "  The  thing  is,  wot's  to  be  done  ?  It's  no 
use  goin'  up  to  Nat  Wilkins  an'  sayin' :  '  'Ere,  we've 
been  an'  lost  the  bloomin'  thing.'  'E'd  make  us  fork 
out  the  tin,  an'  we'd  be  done,  anyway.  We've  jolly 
well  got  ter  put  our  'eads  together,  an'  find  a  way 
out  o'  the  difficulty — find  a  helegant  solooshun." 

Now,  yer  see,  I  was  young  and  inexperienced  then, 
an'  'ad  a  brilliant  idea.  It  was  really  no  business  of 
mine,  considerin'  I  'adn't  been  and  lost  the  pipe.  But  I 
was  gin'rous — allus  ready  to  'elp  a  friend  in  need — 
though  I  will  say  I  was  a  bit  lack  in'  in  the  knowledge 
of  'uman  nature.  So  I  puts  my  'and  on  'Enery 
Walker's  knee,  an'  whispers  : 

"  Why  should  yer  tell  'im  at  aU  ?  " 

*'  W'y,"  says  'e,  "  'e'll  want  either  'is  pipe  or  'is 
money — which  I  ain't  prepared  to  give  in  any  case." 


88  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  You  fool !  "  says  I,  "  'oo  said  the  pipe  was  stolen  ? 
.  .  .  That's  where  my  artfulness  comes  in.  D'you 
remember,  both  of  us  took  it  for  a  hordinary  clay 
pipe — you  even  thought  it  was  made  o'  barley-sugar. 
Well,  w'y  not  get  a  j'eller  clay  pipe  o'  the  same  shape, 
an'  put  it  into  the  case  ?  'Oo'l  know  the  difference  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  blowed  !  "  'e  put  in.  "  That's  wot  I 
call  a  hextry  top-hole  miracle  of  hingeniousness.  'Ere, 
lend  me  sixpence,  an'  I'll  get  a  noo  pipe  at  the  first 
tobacconist's  I  come  across." 

O'  course,  you'll  say  I  was  assoomin'  a  hundue 
responsibility  ;  but  as  I  said  before,  I  allus  was  a  chap 
to  'elp  a  pal  out  of  a  hole.  So  I  gave  'im  sixpence — 
although  'e'd  not  so  much  as  said  good  arternoon  to 
me  the  day  before — which  only  shows  'ow  'eartless  !e 
was.  Well,  that's  neither  'ere  nor  there  :  at  any 
rate,  arter  I  give  'im  the  tin,  'e  rushes  out  o'  my  'ouse, 
and  leaves  me  to  a  cold  breakfast — a  dismal  thing 
arter  a  night's  work. 

Well,  I  lost  sight  o'  'Enery  Walker  arter  that ; 
some'ow  'e  didn't  seem  to  come  near  me  at  all,  though 
I  'card  from  a  pal  or  two  as  'e  appeared  to  be  rather 
flush  in  cash,  'aving  bought  a  new  suit  for  'isself  an' 
a  bonnet  for  'is  wife;  'com  I  met  one  day  lookin'  like  a 
peacock  as  'as  found  a  noo  feather  in  its  tail.  An' 
about  a  week  arterwards  I  'ears  the  voice  of  Nat 
Wilkins  outside  my  w'arf ,  yellin'  that  loud,  an'  swearin' 
that  wishus,  it  was  'orrible  to  'ear. 

"  Where's  that  blamed  night-watchman  o'  yourn  ? 
Were  is  'e  ?  D'you  'ear  ?  I  absolutely  insist  upon 
seem*  'im !  "  I  managed  to  make  out  from  be'ind  a 
pile  o'  cases,  'cause  I  sort  o'  naterally  didn't  wish  to 
come  out  an*  meet  'im  just  then.  Luckily,  the  boy  as 
answered  'im  'ad  enough  presence  o'  mind  to  call 
out  as  I  was  hout  just  then.  Arter  'e'd  waited  about 


W.  W.  JACOBS  89 

'alf  an  hour,  'e  gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job,  an'  said  'e'd  call 
again  in  the  hevenin'.  I  let  'im  call,  an'  managed  to 
dodge  that  clever  that  'e  didn't  get  'is  sight  o'  me  for 
a  week  at  least,  although,  mind  you,  'e  came  te  see  me 
four  times  a  day,  an'  stood  guard  at  our  gates  at 
least  three  hours.  ...  In  course,  'e  didn't  'appen 
to  know  as  there  was  another  way  out  o'  my  w'arf 
round  Jones  and  Robinson's  back  shed,  an'  straight 
through  Lim'us  Dock. 

One  day,  however,  I  'appened  to  be  off  my  guard, 
'an  was  henjoyin'  a  cosy  little  mug  of  ale  at  the 
"  Lord  Warden,"  w'en  suddingly  I  'ears  a  'ear-splitting 
yell,  an'  first  thing  I  remember  arterwards  was  a 
sorter  furious  wild  beast  catchin'  'old  o'  my  right 
shoulder. 

"  There  'e  is  at  last,"  'e  went  on  'owlin'.  "  Got 
yer  at  last,  you  whipper-snapper  of  a  sneakin' 
thief!  ..."  Fancy  'im  callin'  me  a  whipper-snapper ! 
O'  course  it  was  'im — Nat  Wilkins — wilder'n  I'd 
ever  thought  a  'uman  bein'  could  be— which  just 
shows  the  power  of  mental  hillusion  on  a  hunsteady 
mind. 

'  What'  yer  mean  by  hinsultin'  a  respectable 
workin'  man  ?  "  I  returns,  as  sharp  as  steel. 

'  You  know  very  well  what  I  mean,"  'e  shouts 
back.  "  Think  I  'aven't  seen  through  yer  little  game  ? 
Wot  about  my  pipe — a  beautiful  an'  rare  meerschaum 
pipe  ?  " 

"  Well,  wot  about  it  ?  "  says  I.  "  You  gave  it 
to  'Enery  Walker  to  try  to  sell  it — 'e  may  'ave  sold 
it,  for  all  I  know." 

'  You  lying  skunk !  "  'e  roars  at  me,  'oldin'  a  pipe- 
case  full  in  view.  "  You  went  an'  changed  it — kept 
my  precious  meerschaum  pipe,  and  put  this  fourp'ny- 
'a-p'ny  yeller  clay  one  in  its  place  !  You  thief !  " 


90  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  Look  'ere,"  says  I,  vvarmin'  up  in  the  hargument, 
"  you  just  mind  wot  you  say.  You  don't  call  me 
names  without  gettin'  a  black  heye." 

Then  'e  got  wilder  still,  an'  talked  of  the  perlice, 
an'  'is  lawyer,  an'  so  on  :  but  Bill  'Ooper,  the  publican, 
'e  pointed  out  to  'im  as  'e  couldn't  prove  nothin' 
agin'  me,  an'  the  colour  'is  face  went  then  was  some- 
thin'  too  dreadful  heven  for  a  nightmare. 

"  I  say,"  I  called  to  'im  then,  "  wot  d'yer  mean 
by  callin'  me  a  thief,  w'en  you  can't  prove  nothin'  ? 
You're  a  slanderer,  you  are,  tryin'  to  spoil  my  repita- 
tion."  An'  I  ups  an  goes  at  'im  like  mad — 'cos'  I 
can  tell  you  I  was  pretty  well  excited  too  by  now. 

We  'ad  a  reg'lar  good  fight  then  :  I  remember  'e 
'ad  two  black  eyes,  an'  I  knocked  out  one  of  'is  front 
teeth,  w'ile  'e  didn't  do  me  much  'arm.  An'  in  the 
end,  'e  crept  away  without  a  single  word,  which  goes 
to  prove  as  a  chap  allus  knows  when  'e's  beat. 

I  never  seen  'im  agin,  o'  course  (/  saw  to  that).  But 
wot  I  wanted  to  say  is  this  :  as  I  never  caught  sight 
of  'Enery  Walker  neither — 'im  as  made  a  tidy  pot  by 
collarin'  the  pipe,  an'  was  mean  enough  to  borrow 
sixpence  from  the  pal  as  saved  'im.  an'  only  needed 
fourpence-'a'p'ny,  too.  Yes,  that's  the  depths  in- 
gratitood  may  go  in  some  'uman  'earts." 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  91 


A.    CONAN   DOYLE 

THE  FOOTPRINTS  ON  THE  CEILING 

Being  an  account  of  an  adventure  of  Professor  George 
E.  Challenger,  Lord  John  Roxton,  Mr.  Sherlock 
Holmes,  Dr.  Watson,  M.D.,  and  Mr.  E.  D.  M alone. 

WHEN,  some  years  ago,  I  attempted  to  chronicle 
the  stupendous  adventure  of  our  little  group 
in  the   "  Lost   world "  of   South   America, 
and,  some  time  later,  its  still  more  amazing  episode 
while   the   earth   was   passing   through  the   "  Poison 
Belt  "  of  ether,  I  little  thought  it  might  be  my  lot 
to  relate  another  marvellous  occurrence  some  of  us 
were  to  go  through  ;    and  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  set  it 
down  at  once,  while  most  of  the  details  are  still  fresh 
in  my  memory. 

It  was  a  warm  day  in  June — the  fourteenth,  as  I 
make  out  by  an  entry  in  my  note-book — that  the 
adventure  may  be  said  to  begin.  I  had  just  come 
out  of  Mr.  MacArdle's  office  ;  the  kind-hearted  old 
Scot  was  about  to  retire  from  the  post  he  had  occupied 
so  long,  that  of  news-editor  to  the  Daily  Gazette,  to 
which  (I  say  it  in  all  modesty)  the  proprietors  had 
decided  to  promote  me.  Old  MacArdle  had  given 
me  a  few  parting  words  of  sound  advice,  and  I  was 


92  RATHER  LIKE.... 

still  meditating  his  well-meant  remarks  while  I  sat 
down  in  my  own  little  office,  which  I  was  to  leave  so 
soon.  My  brain  was  full  of  lingering  thoughts  of 
the  past,  mingling  with  vague  plans  for  the  future, 
when  the  office-boy  came  thundering  in,  bearing  a 
visiting-card  between  his  none  too  clean  fingers. 

"  A  gentleman  to  see  you,  Mr.  Malone,"  he  cried, 
banging  the  door. 

"  Sure  it's  me  he  wants  to  see,  and  not  Mr.  Mac- 
Ardle  ?  "  I  cautiously  demanded,  not  wishing  to  be 
disturbed  uselessly. 

"  He  said  Mr.  Malone,  sir,"  the  boy  assured  me. 
'  Well,  show  him  in,"  I  said,  looking  at  the  card, 
which  bore  the  printed  inscription  :  Dr.  Watson, 
below  which  I  read,  in  a  barely  legible  handwriting  : 
requests  the  favour  of  a  few  minutes'  interview  with 
Mr.  Malone.  Here  were  the  tables  turned,  indeed  ! 
I  was  all  the  more  puzzled,  as  I  knew  nothing  of  this 
Dr.  Watson.  I  was  revolving  in  my  mind  the  several 
doctors,  and  the  many  Watsons,  with  whom  1  was 
more  or  less  acquainted,  when  the  door  opened  again, 
and  a  plain-faced  man — evidently  a  physician — was 
ushered  in  by  the  irrepressible  office-boy. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Malone  ?  "  he  said  in  a 
singularly  oppressed-sounding  voice,  anxiety  seeming 
to  pierce  through  his  open  lips  and  sallow  cheeks. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Dr.  Watson,"  I  rejoined.  "  What 
may  I  do  for  you  ?  I  am  afraid  you  must  have  made 
a  mistake,  as  .  .  ." 

"  I  think  not,"  he  hastily  interrupted.  "  I  must 
ask  you  to  excuse  me,  but  you  are  the  Mr.  Malone, 
Professor  Challenger's  friend  ?  " 

Indeed,  I  have  the  honour  of  his  acquaintance," 
said  I,  "although  friendship  is,  I  fear,  too  presumptuous 
a  word,  on  my  part  at  least." 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  93 

"  Well,  Mr.  Malone,"  he  continued,  in  gulping 
torrents  of  words,  "  I  must  intrude  upon  your  time 
to  the  extent  of  asking  you  for  an  introduction  to 
Professor  Challenger's.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  arid 
death.  I  know  the  eminent  scientist  and  his  wife  do 
not  care  to  be  interviewed  by  strangers,  and  that  is 
the  reason  why  I  appeal  to  you." 

"  Indeed,  Dr.  Watson,"  I  replied,  "  I  doubt 
whether  Professor  Challenger  would  consent  to  see 
you  at  all,  even  if  I  were  to  introduce  you  to  him." 

"He  is  your  friend — and  what  I  ask  is  on  behalf 
of  a  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes,  of  whom 
you  have  doubtless  heard." 

"  I  must  apologise  for  my  ignorance,"  I  replied. 
"  However,  I  am  quite  willing  to  answer  your  urgent 
appeal  to  friendship — although  I  have  very  little 
confidence  in  my  power  to  help.  The  best  I  can  do 
would  be,  I  suppose,  to  accompany  you  myself  to 
Professor  Challenger's  :  you  might  explain  the  matter 
to  me  on  the  way." 

"  Mr.  Malone,"  he  answered,  heaving  a  deep  sigh 
of  relief,  "  I  shall  indeed  be  greatly  indebted  to  you, 
if  you  can  spare  the  time." 

"  Let  me  see,"  I  mused,  "  there  is  a  train  from 
Victoria  at  .  .  ." 

But  he  interrupted  me  at  once. 

"  I  have  a  40-horse-power  Humber  waiting  outside, 
which  will  take  us  to  Rotherfield  before  we  could  get 
there  by  train. 

"  Very  well,"  I  replied.  "  Pray  excuse  me  a 
moment  while  I  see  my  assistant,  and  I  shall  be  quite 
ready  for  you." 

I  found  Harper,  my  assistant,  smoking  his  pipe  in 
the  passage,  and  hurriedly  told  him  of  my  unexpected 
mission.  After  which,  putting  on  my  cap  and  coat, 


94  RATHER  LIKE.... 

and  throwing  a  couple  of  rugs  over  my  arm,  I  rejoined 
Dr.  Watson  and  was  conducted  to  his  car,  which 
a  smart  chauffeur  set  in  motion  at  once,  without  even 
waiting  for  any  direction  from  his  master. 

We  had  hardly  set  off,  however,  when  I  heard  my 
name  shouted  by  a  voice  I  could  not  fail  to  recognise 
instantly,  while  I  turned  to  gaze  at  a  tall,  thin  figure, 
clad  in  a  grey  tweed  shooting  suit,  that  emerged  from 
a  motor-car  just  a  few  yards  behind  ours. 

"  Hullo,  young  fellah!  "  cried  Lord  John  Roxton. 
Beside  him  was  sitting  another  tall  man,  though  he 
had  nothing  in  common  with  his  companion  :  silent 
and  absorbed,  he  looked  more  like  a  human  mummy 
than  a  living  being,  and  the  slow  beating  of  the 
temples  was  the  only  sign  of  life  he  seemed  to  give. 
I  was  waving  my  hand  in  reply  to  Lord  John  when 
my  companion  suddenly  sprang  up  in  his  turn, 
and,  pointing  towards  the  second  car,  cried  out 
excitedly  : 

'  What,  Holmes!    You  don't  mean  to  say  you  ..." 

"  My  dear  Watson,"  calmly  replied  my  friend's 
fellow-passenger,  "  since  we  are  obviously  bound  for 
the  same  destination,  I  think  we  could  no  better  than 
use  the  same  ear.  Lord  John,"  he  continued,  turning 
to  his  companion,  "  shall  we  join  our  friends  ?  I  am 
sure  Dr.  Watson's  car  will  be  more  comfortable,  and 
faster  than  our  taxi." 

"  Right  you  are,"  said  Lord  John,  "  besides,  the 
more,  the  merrier." 

Accordingly  both  vehicles  were  stopped,  Lord  John 
paid  his  chauffeur,  and  the  little  party  of  four  were 
soon  seated  in  the  capacious  4O-H.-P.,  smoothly 
running  southwards. 

After  a  few  exuberant  remarks  in  Lord  John 
Roxton's  most  characteristic  manner,  his  companion, 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  95 

looking  keenly  at  me,  began  speaking  in  a  marvellously 
even  and  passionless  voice. 

"  Good  day,  Mr.  Malone." 

"  Indeed,  Holmes,"  interrupted  his  friend,  "  I  am 
afraid  I  should  have  introduced  you  :  pray  excuse 
my  carelessness  ...  Though  how  you  immediately 
hit  on  Mr.  Malone's  name — seeing  you  don't  know 
him,  and  absolutely  ignored  what  I  was  about  to  do — 
I  really  fail  to  see." 

"  Marvellous !  "  exclaimed  Lord  John, "  most  aston- 
ishin',  I  call  it." 

"It  is  the  simplest  thing  imaginable,"  Holmes 
calmly  proceeded,  turning  to  me.  "  It  is  obvious  you 
are  a  journalist  :  your  pockets  are  crammed  with 
note-books,  and  I  see  a  Waterman  peeping  out  of 
your  waistcoat  pocket ;  the  second  finger  of  your 
right  hand  is  somewhat  horny  on  the  left  side — an 
evident  sign  of  active  use  of  pen  and  pencil ;  there  are  a 
few  inkstains  on  your  coat  sleeves — where,  occasionally 
you  dab  your  pen  to  rid  it  of  any  small  encumbrance 
it  may  have  caught ;  you  are  somewhat  short-sighted 
— a  sign  of  much  reading  or  writing.  Moreover,  I 
see  copies  of  the  Daily  Gazette  protruding  not  only 
from  your  coat,  but  also  between  the  rugs  over  your 
arm — which  makes  it  quite  evident  that  you  are  on 
the  staff  of  that  paper.  Now  I  see  you  with  my  friend 
Watson,  who  is  greatly  concerned  with  the  fate  of 
Professor  Challenger  .  .  .  Challenger  has  very  few 
journalist  friends  ;  in  fact,  the  only  one  is  Mr.  Malone  : 
a  child  would  deduce  your  identity." 

"  Absolutely  rippin' !  "  exclaimed  Lord  John ;  while 
I  was  too  much  amazed  for  words. 

"  By  the  way,"  continued  this  remarkable  man, 
turning  to  my  companion,  "  let  me  congratulate  you 
on  your  movements,  rny  dear  Watson.  It  was  indeed 


96  RATHER  LIKE.... 

most  thoughtful  of  you  to  enlist  the  services  of  Mr. 
Malone,  who  is  one  of  the  two  only  men  now  hi  England 
with  the  power  of  securing  an  introduction  to  Pro- 
fessor Challenger's.  I  was  about  to  look  him  up 
myself  at  his  office,  when,  by  a  lucky  chance,  I  met 
Lord  John  Roxton,  whom,  of  course,  I  instantly 
recognised  from  the  description  given  in  Mr.  Malone 's 
narratives." 

'  Yes,"  put  in  my  friend,  "  extraordinary  it  was, 
too,  seein'  you  had  never  even  set  eyes  on  me  before." 

"  A  simple  instance  of  deduction,  aided  by  memory," 
explained  Sherlock  Holmes. 

Now,  however,  I  turned  to  him  and  his  friend, 
with  questioning  eyes. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  I,  "  you  could  now  explain  the 
object  of  your  mission  ;  for  I  cannot  conceal  my 
astonishment." 

"  Right  you  are,  young  fellah,"  echoed  Lord  John. 
"  Come  now,  gentlemen,  will  you  kindly  explain  ?  " 

'  You  have  a  perfect  right  to  know  everything," 
answered  Dr.  Watson,  "  and  as  we  have  some  time 
before  us,  I  think  there  is  no  reason  whatever  for 
withholding  the  explanation  any  longer.  You  must 
know,  then,  that  Professor  Challenger  has  dis- 
appeared." 

The  effect  of  this  revelation  was  startling  on  both 
of  us. 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Lord  John,  "  a  man  of  his 
size,  disappearin'  in  the  middle  of  a  civilised  country !  " 

"  It  is  indeed  incredible,"  I  cried  out. 

'  I  received  the  news  from  his  old  chauffeur," 
Holmes  said  quietly,  "  and  immediately  started  on 
my  investigation.  At  the  present  moment  I  happen 
to  know  a  few  data  concerning  the  case  :  for  instance, 
the  person  whom  I  suspect  of  having  absconded  with 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  97 

the  professor  is  a  small  man,  with  blonde  hair  and 
long  finger  nails  ;  he  must  be  in  some  great  distress, 
and  was  formerly  a  creature  of  higher  standard,  now 
evidently  fallen  somewhat  in  the  social  and  moral 
scale.  I  hope  to  lay  my  hands  on  him  at  no  very 
future  date,  but  in  order  to  do  so,  I  must  examine 
Professor  Challenger's  abode  with  some  care.  That 
is  why  I  set  out  to  find  you,  Mr.  Malone,  little  dreaming 
that  I  should  first  meet  Lord  John  Roxton,  and  still 
less  that  my  friend  Dr.  Watson  would  be  simul- 
taneously— and  successfully — engaged  on  the  same 
quest." 

"  Holmes/'  excitedly  exclaimed  Dr.  Watson,  "  ac- 
customed to  your  deductive  methods  as  I  am,  I  am 
quite  overwhelmed  by  all  this  information  about  the 
unknown  blackguard  on  whose  track  we  all  of  us  are 
now  set !  How  on  earth  has  it  been  possible  for  you 
to  get  at  it  ?  Have  you  discovered  some  new  clue 
since  I  left  you  ?  " 

"  None  whatever,"  calmly  rejoined  this  remarkable 
man.  "  I  know  nothing  more  than  you — we  were 
together  when  the  chauffeur  rushed  into  my  rooms  in 
Baker  Street,  and  related  his  master's  strange  dis- 
appearance." 

'  Why,  dash  it  all,"  Lord  John  cried  out,  "  it's 
clean  marvellous  ! " 

"  Indeed,"  I  hastily  added,  "  you  might  do  us  the 
favour  of  explaining  something  of  your  process,  Mr. 
Holmes." 

'  It  is  the  simplest  thing  imaginable,"  he  answered. 
"  All  the  data  were  inferred  from  Austin's  visit.  You 
may  recollect  the  man  :  of  middle  height,  none  too 
strong,  though  indubitably  tough,  and  eminently 
impassive.  From  these  characters,  it  is  evident  that 
the  kidnapper  is  a  small  man.  .  .  ." 

6 


98  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  My  dear  Holmes  !  "  ejaculated  the  doctor. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  fellow,"  continued  his  friend. 
"If  he  had  been  tall  and  strong,  or  ortly  of  medium 
height  and  strength,  he  would  certainly  have  seen 
to  it  that  Austin  be  removed,  and  put  out  of  the 
possibility  of  telling  tales.  Austin  was  left  free  : 
ergo  the  kidnapper  is  physically  his  inferior.  The 
colour  of  his  hair,  and  the  abnormal  length  of  his 
finger-nails,  were  immediately  deduced  by  a  casual 
glance  at  the  cap  Austin  wore — it  was  not  his  own, 
as  I  at  once  remarked  ;  you  may  recollect  he  said,  in 
reply  to  one  of  my  questions,  it  was  one  of  his  master's  ; 
well,  the  cap  was  strewn  with  long,  fair,  reddish  hairs, 
and  bore  marks  of  tearing,  which  could  only  have  been 
accomplished  by  finger-nails  :  I  have  studied  the 
question  in  s~>me  detail ;  the  technicalities  may,  of 
course,  be  found  in  my  pamphlet  on  the  subject — and 
I  am  perfectly  sure  of  my  conclusion." 

''  Rippin' !  "  exclaimed  Lord  John  Roxton. 

"  But  how  could  you  deduce  the  moral  and  social 
part  of  your  inference  ?  "  I  asked,  admiration  for  this 
deductive  genious  not  yet  quenching  my  thirst  for  his 
secrets. 

"  Equally  simple,  Mr.  Malone,"  he  answered, 
smiling.  "  First  of  all,  it  is  quite  clear  no  one  would 
dream  of  absconding  with  a  man  like  Professor  Chal- 
lenger if  he  could  possibly  do  otherwise  ;  hence  the 
great  distress.  Moreover,  the  fact  of  kidnapping  a 
man  of  such  acknowledged  genius  points  to  a  certain 
intellectual  and  moral  standard  :  the  common  crim- 
inal would  kidnap  a  millionaire,  and  hold  him  to 
ransom— but  not  a  scientist  :  and  last  of  all,  our  man 
has  certainly  fallen  rather  low  in  the  moral  and  social 
scale,  else  he  would  visibly  not  have  reverted  to  such 
extreme  measures  .  .  .  You  see,  it  is  all  perfectly 
simple." 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  99 

"  You  beat  Euclid  hollow,"  roared  Lord  John, 
"  Don't  you  think  so,  young  fellah  ?  " 

"  As  far  as  I  can  remember,"  I  answered,  smiling 
ruefull}-,  "  Euclid  only  deduces  things  that  everybody 
knew  already,  or  ought  to  know,  \vhereas  Mr.  Holmes 
makes  the  whole  invisible  effect  appear  under  the  full 
limelight  of  the  cause." 

"  Very  neatly  put,  I'm  sure,"  added  Dr.  Watson. 
"  But  here,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  we  are  at  our 
journey's  end." 

At  some  distance  behind  us,  peering  over  a  clipped 
hedge,  was  Professor  Challenger's  so  unhospitable 
notice-board.  We  were  passing  between  the  posts  of 
a  gate,  and  at  the  end  of  a  drive  hedged  in  with  rhodo- 
dendron bushes,  the  familiar  brick  house  peered 
smilingly  at  us — that  is,  at  least  at  two  of  us. 

Entering  the  house,  we  were  met  by  little  Mrs. 
Challenger,  as  dainty  as  ever,  though  her  eyes  were 
red  with  recent  crying,  and  her  whole  face  bore  the 
marks  of  the  anxiety  and  sorrow  she  had  undergone. 
She  came  up  to  Lord  John  and  myself,  while  a  look 
of  gratitude  and  hope  passed,  for  an  instant,  across 
her  careworn  features. 

"  Oh,  Lord  John,  and  you,  Mr.  Malonc ! "  she 
exclaimed  in  a  voice  bordering  between  tears  and  joy, 
"  how  kind  of  you  to  come  to  me  in  my  distress !  I 
would  not  have  dared  to  trouble  you  myself,  but  I 
cannot  express  my  relief  at  seeing  you  here." 

"  It's  all  right,  my  dear  Mrs.  Challenger,"  cheer- 
fully replied  Lord  John  Roxton.  "  Although  Malone 
and  I  are  little  good,  I'm  afraid,  we've  brought  you  a 
rippin'  friend  in  need,  who'll  find  the  Professor  in  half 
the  time  it'd  take  me  to  stalk  a  buffalo.  .  .  .  May  I 
introduce  you  to  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes,  and  to  Dr. 
Watson,  his  friend  ?  .  .  .  Gentlemen,  Mrs.  Challenger." 


ioo  RATHER  LIKE.... 

She  shook  hands  gratefully  with  both  of  them,  and 
was  speaking  some  words  of  welcome  to  the  latter, 
when  I  noticed  that  Holmes  had  disappeared.  Dr. 
Watson  immediately  excused  his  friend's  apparent  im- 
propriety, on  the  plea  that  he  was  already  following 
some  clue  to  the  mystery.  All  three  of  us  then 
followed  her  into  the  rosy  boudoir  where  we  had 
passed  such  memorable  hours  while  the  world  was 
passing  through  the  Poison  Belt. 

She  had  begun  to  relate  her  husband's  strange 
disappearance,  which  had  occurred  on  the  preceding 
day.  The  professor  had  retired  to  his  study  after 
breakfast,  as  usual,  and  when  Austin,  as  was  his 
habit,  knocked  at  the  door  to  announce  lunc  ,  he  had 
received  no  answer ;  the  faithful  chauffeur  had 
finally  entered  the  study,  only  to  find  himself  in  an 
empty  room.  His  master  had  said  nothing  of  leaving, 
or  even  of  going  out ;  indeed,  nobody  had  left  the 
house,  through  the  door,  at  any  rate.  Having  reached 
this  point  of  her  narrative,  Mrs.  Challenger  broke 
down,  and  it  was  ^nly  by  our  combined  eftorts  that 
she  finally  managed  to  recover  her  composure,  though 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Sherlock 
Holmes,  keen  and  alert,  burst  into  the  room,  walking 
straight  up  to  Dr.  Watson. 

"  Watson,"  he  said  in  that  calm  and  passionless 
voice  of  his,  though  it  was  easy  to  see  he  was  tingling 
with  excitement,  "  would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  give 
me  some  information  concerning  Zeemann's  phenom- 
enon ?  I  have,  myself,  dabbled  somewhat  in  science, 
but  I  am  afraid  I  have  no  recollection  of  this  ap- 
parentty  recently-discovered  notion,  and  I  apply  to 
you  as  to  the  scientist  of  our  party." 

"  My  dear  Holmes,"  replied  Watson,  visibly  dis- 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  101 

appointed,  "  I'm  sure  I  utterly  fail  to  see  what  Zee- 
mann's  phenomenon  has  to  do  with  your  case.  Indeed, 
I  am  afraid  it  is  somewhat  outside  the  range  of  a 
mere  physician.  Nevertheless,  I  may  tell  you  broadly 
what  it  is.  Zeemann  was  the  first  to  discover  that  all 
the  colours  and  lines  revealed  by  spectral  analysis 
are  actually  deviated  by  some  influences — amongst 
others,  by  a  strong  magnetic  field." 

"  Then  I  have  it  !  "  exclaimed  Holmes,  himself 
moved  to  some  display  of  excitement  his  voice  no 
longer  suppressed. 

"  What  ?  "  Mrs.  Challenger  cried  out,  "  you  mean 
you  have  found.  .  ." 

"  Professor  Challenger  will  be  amongst  us  within  a 
few  minutes,"  he  resumed,  in  tones  once  more  void 
of  any  emotion.  "  Gentlemen,  I  request  you  to  follow 
me  into  the  scientist's  study.  Pray  excuse  us, 
Madam." 

The  four  of  us  found  ourselves  in  the  familiar  study, 
a  look  of  amazement  on  the  faces  of  all  save  Sherlock 
Holmes,  who  began  in  an  even  voice  :  "I  must  first 
of  all  confess  that  I  was  completely  wrong  about  the 
results  I  told  you  of  on  the  way  here  ;  I  was  completely 
misled  by  appearances,  which  only  proves  that  one 
should  never  work  on  pre-conceived  ideas.  However, 
I  am  happy  to  say  I  discovered  my  mistake  as  soon  as 
I  entered  this  room." 

"  How  on  earth  could  the  simple  aspect  of  this 
room  account  for  such  a  change  ?  "  muttered  Dr. 
Watson,  turning  his  puzzled  face  towards  his 
friend. 

"  Look,"  replied  Holmes,  pointing  first  to  the 
ceiling,  and  then  to  a  mass  of  papers  strewn  about 
the  scientist's  desk.  "  The  ceiling  unquestionably 
bears  footprints.  .  .  ,  And  these  papers  all  contain 


102  RATHER  LIKE.... 

diagrams  and  rough  jottings,  where  the  words,  "  Zee- 
mann's  phenomenon"  ever  recur.  Here  " — he  pointed 
towards  a  little  case  attached  to  the  wall,  "  is  an 
electric  switch  commanding  an  electro-magnet  in  the 
laboratory  (as  the  inscription  says)  :  you  may 
notice  the  current  is  now  on.  On  further  investiga- 
tion, I  ascertained  that  the  current  consumed  since 
the  Company's  last  visit  (which  happens  to  have  been 
yesterday)  is  no  less  than  2,000  Kwh.  .  .  .  The 
missing  link  in  this  remarkable  chain  of  evidence  was 
given  me  just  now  by  Watson's  explanation  of  Zee- 
mann's  phenomenon — and  now  Professor  Challenger 
will  instantly  return." 

All  three  of  us  were  too  dumfounded  to  under- 
stand ;  what  Sherlock  Holmes  called  a  chain  of 
evidence  was  an  inextricable  labyrinth  to  me,  and  I 
was  just  about  to  set  a  question,  when  I  saw  him 
jump  forward,  and  calmly  switch  off  the  electric 
current.  Immediately  the  silence  seemed  intensified  ; 
we  gazed  spellbound  at  one  another,  and  suddenly 
a  massive  form  was  visible,  apparently  dropping  out 
of  nowhere,  in  the  region  of  the  ceiling. 

Holmes  was  the  first  to  act.  He  sprang  forth, 
and  clutched  at  the  apparition,  from  which  a  bellow- 
ing yell  issued  at  the  same  time.  I  came  nearer  in  my 
turn,  and  was  able  to  make  out  a  black  beard,  a  huge 
head,  with  a  broad  forehead  and  a  dark  plaster  of 
black  hair,  then  two  clear  grey  eyes,  with  their  insolent 
eyelids — and  suddenly  I  recognised  the  missing  man. 
Holmes,  lithe  as  a  panther,  caught  him  in  his  arms, 
and  instantly  set  him  on  his  feet. 

"  Hullo  !  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?  Now 
my  young  friend,  what  is  all  this  ?  "  How  inexpres- 
sibly glad  I  was  to  hear  the  familiar  voice ! 

"  Why,  Herr  Professor !  "  cried  out  Lord  John. 


A,  CONAN   DOYLE  103 

"  Yes,  himself,"  came  Challenger's  sonorous  bass 
— and  suddenly  perceiving  the  two  others,  he  went 
on  :  "  And  may  I  ask  who  these  intruders  are  ?  " 

"  Dear  Professor  Challenger,"  I  tried  to  calm  him, 
"  these  gentlemen  came  here  with  Lord  John  and 
myself,  and  have  just  solved  the  mystery  of  your 
disappearance.  ..." 

"  My  disappearance  ?  "  he  vigorously  interrupted. 
"  How  can  I  have  disappeared,  when  I  was  simply 
trying  a  little  experiment  on  Zeemann's  phenomenon  ? 
Pray  answer  that,  sir — yes,  you,  I  mean !  "  And  he 
turned  savagely  towards  Sherlock  Holmes. 

Our  remarkable  friend  calmly  met  his  gaze ; 
"  May  I  ask  you  what  day  you  make  it  out  to  be, 
Professor  Challenger  ?  "  he  enquired. 

"  What  day  ?  "  bellowed  the  irate  scientist.  "  Tell 
you  what  day  it  is  ?  Yes,  sir,  I  can  :  it  is  the  I3th 
of  June,  and  it  also  happens  to  be  " — here  he  looked 
at  his  watch — "  3.35  p.m." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  replied  Holmes,  "  you  hap- 
pen to  be  wrong — which  is  only  natural  after  your 
adventure  :  it  is  not  the  i3th,  however,  but  the  I4th  ; 
you  have  been  absent  from  our  planet  for  something 
over  twenty-seven  hours." 

"  Extraordinary  !  "  muttered  Lord  John  Roxton. 

"  Incredible !  "  I  could  not  help  exclaiming. 

"  Would  you  mind  explaining  your  meaning,  which 
appears  somewhat  blurred  to  my  feeble  intellect  ?  " 
asked  Challenger,  taking  up  his  thundering  irony. 

"  Nothing  is  easier,"  said  Sherlock  Holmes. 
"  Yesterday  morning,  you  came  into  your  study,  and 
started  experimenting  about  Zeemann's  phenomenon. 
You  switched  the  current  into  a  hyper-powerful 
electro-magnet,  evidently  not  thinking  of  the  enormous 
amount  of  iron  a  human  body  of  your  dimensions 


104  RATHER  LIKE.... 

must  contain — or  of  the  tremendous  effect  the  mag- 
netic field  might  have  upon  the  spectrum  such  a  body 
would  absorb.  In  short,  Zeemann's  phenomenon 
deviated  that  spectrum  further  than  could  have  been 
expected — and  you  followed  it,  quite  unconsciously, 
into  space — or  into  ether.  Those  are  the  traces  of 
your  passage,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  footmarks  on 
the  ceiling.  "It  is  quite  simple,  as  you  see,  my  dear 
Watson  .  .  .  And  now,  gentlemen,  let  us  return  to 
Mrs.  Challenger." 


W.  J.  LOCKE  105 


W.   J.   LOCKE 

THE  HEART  OF  A  BACHELOR 

"  T     A    VALEUR    n'attend    pas    le    nombre   des 
%  annees,"  said   the  French  poet.     To  Bob 

•* — •  Chaynero,  certainly,  valour  came  before 
years,  which  is  all  the  more  remarkable  in  a  gutter- 
snipe of  his  sort.  For  Bob  was  born  and  bred 
in  the  gutter ;  indeed,  his  habitual  residence  was 
Walker  Court,  a  none  too  sweet-smelling  abode  in 
the  immediate  vicinity  of  Mile-End  Road,  White- 
chapel  ;  and  that  is  precisely  where  I  made  his 
acquaintance.  Now  why  should  a  man  of  my  gener- 
ally urbane  temperament  walk  so  far  out  of  his  habit- 
ual milieu,  as  to  haunt  purlieus  of  so  unsavoury  a 
description  as  Mile-End  Road,  and  Walker  Court  ? 
I  am  afraid  that  would  be  rather  a  long  story :  how- 
ever, to  be  brief,  I  wanted  to  collect  some  "  human  " 
documents  for  a  paper  I  was  preparing  for  the  "  Inter- 
national Philanthropic  Society,"  of  which  I  was  the 
President  ;  and,  like  many  a  better  man,  I  had  taken 
to  slumming,  thinking  thereby  to  gain  unfathomable 
knowledge  of  some  of  the  innermost  things  of  our 
passing  souls — which  was  rather  a  pretty  conceit. 
It  was  there,  however,  athirst  for  knowledge  that 


io6  RATHER  LIKE.... 

nothing  save  actual  life  may  give,  that  I  came  across 
the  quaintest  figure  imaginable  ;  a  mere  boy,  perhaps 
ten  years  old,  in  the  usual  tattered  garments  that 
make  the  nondescript  attirail  of  the  ragamuffin — with 
something  at  once  brilliant  and  arresting,  however, 
in  his  general  allure — the  air  of  a  beaten  dog  that 
thoroughly  objects  to  being  ill-treated,  an  unconscious 
defiance  to  Slumland  and  to  Philistia  alike  in  the 
blazing  fire  of  his  liquid  eyes,  and  in  the  golden  curls 
of  his  unkempt  head. 

He  was  not  very  tall,  he  was  not  very  beautiful ; 
yet  I  smile  as  I  recall  to  mind  his  heroic  bearing  to 
the  face  of  a  life  that  had  visibly  been  the  cruellest 
of  step-mothers  to  him.  As  I  remarked  a  moment 
ago,  the  pathetic  braggadocio  of  the  small  figure  had 
already  arrested  my  attention,  but  the  words  that 
sprang  to  the  lips  immediately  took  refuge  outside 
the  commonplace. 

"  How  much  would  it  cost  to  go  to  Paris,  sir  ?  " 
His  eyes  were  staring  at  me,  and  the  quality  of  the 
voice  was  musical  as  well  as  eager  ;  the  question  in 
itself  was  startling  from  such  lips,  and  no  trace  of 
cockney  accent  was  discernible  about  it — not  even 
in  the  first  word,  in  which  the  h  was  sounded  as  cor- 
rectly as  by  an  actor  in  the  heyday  of  his  fame. 

I  took  some  time  to  answer,  but  I  managed  it 
somehow.  "  I'm  afraid  it  does  cost  a  good  deal  of 
money.  But  how  did  you  come  to  think  of  getting 
there  ?  " 

Perhaps  something  in  my  voice  inspired  him  with 
confidence  ;  he  did  not  shrink  away  from  me,  as  so 
many  of  his  type  would  have  done.  .  .  .  But  then, 
who  else,  of  his  type,  would  have  put  such  a  question 
to  the  first  decently-dressed  man  who  happened  to 
walk  his  way  ?  Fancy  ?  Pre-ordained  sympathy  ? 


W.  J.  LOCKE  107 

Coup  de  foudre  ?  Who  may  tell  the  inner  workings 
of  a  boy's  heart,  a  thousand  times  more  complex 
than  any  woman's,  and  hardly  ever  noticed,  much  less 
studied,  in  our  days  of  marriage  market  and  electric 
trains  ?  Whatever  the  answer,  the  youthful  raga- 
muffin had  awakened  a  dormant  chord  within  me, 
and  doubtless  its  echo  was  still  vibrating  in  a  neat 
little  casket  of  his  nascent  soul. 

That  is  how  we  became  friends,  Bob  Chaynero 
and  I.  Before  I  was  half  an  hour  older,  I  learned  all 
about  him  :  his  name,  the  vile  conduct  of  his  parents, 
and — what  proved  vastly  more  interesting — how  he 
had  been  taught  the  rudiments  of  speech  by  an  old 
Frenchman  who  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  boy,  and 
was  now  dead. 

M.  Lyonnais  had  been  the  old  man's  name ;  he 
had  been,  said  Bob,  a  teacher  of  languages,  as  are  so 
many  of  his  compatriots  stranded  to  our  (to  them) 
unhospitable  shores.  He  spoke  English  like  a  foreigner, 
it  seemed,  but  knew  it  well ;  besides,  what  matters 
the  tongue  when  the  heart  speaks  ?  And  old  M. 
Lyonnais'  heart  had  spoken  to  the  boy's,  transplanting 
it  out  of  the  filth  and  ignorance  it  was  born  to  know, 
right  into  the  golden  garden  of  romance,  far  into  the 
brilliant  realms  of  budding  knowledge  and  flowering 
fancy. 

Yes,  such  was  my  first  meeting  with  Bob  Chaynero  ; 
and,  stolid  Englishman  though  I  was,  I  could  not 
help  my  heart  warming  to  the  lad ;  I  resolved  to 
become  the  old  man's  successor — and  at  once  felt 
thankful  towards  Providence  for  having  given  me  a 
purpose  in  life.  Till  then,  I  had  been  a  mere  idle 
pedant,  a  podgy  philosopher,  whom  some  called 
dilettante,  and  others  (more  numerous,  no  doubt), 
fool  ;  to  such  as  me,  bachelorhood  had  always 


io8  RATHER  LIKE.... 

appeared  a  necessity,  not  from  any  inkling  of 
misogyny,  but  from  fear  of  the  actual  difficulties 
of  wooing  and  winning  a  maid  ;  I  had  always 
been  appalled  at  the  thought  of  putting  the  fateful 
question  ;  the  idea  of  choosing  a  house,  of  fitting 
it  out,  of  calling  on  upholsterer  furniture  dealer, 
and  God  alone  knows  how  many  other  trades- 
men, had  been  sufficient  to  keep  me  out  of  matrimony  ; 
perhaps  also  I  had  never  met  the  lady  whom  I  was 
preordained,  by  Aphrodite's  decree,  to  meet  and  love 
— in  this  world  or  the  next.  The  finding  of  Bob  was 
to  me  what  is,  to  a  lonely  mother,  the  advent  of  her 
first  child  ;  however,  my  child  was  already  ten  years 
old.  I  had  little  difficulty  in  persuading  his  lawful 
parents  to  leave  his  education  in  my  hands  ;  a  few 
sovereigns  go  a  long  way  towards  facilitating  such 
arguments,  and  make  them  irresistible  to  the  Mr. 
Chayneros  of  our  world. 

From  that  day  I  had  a  child,  and  Bob  had  a  friend, 
who  did  not,  perhaps,  take  the  place  of  the  one  that 
had  departed  for  ever — it  will  never  appeal  to  me  to 
enter  a  dead  man's  shoes — but  strove  to  do  his  best 
towards  the  lad.  I  was  amazed  at  his  knowledge,  and 
still  more  at  his  taste  ;  he  certainly  remembered  more 
about  most  subjects  than  the  average  gentleman's 
son  of  his  age — let  alone  street  urchins  ;  and  fled  with 
horror  from  the  glaring  chromotint  to  the  dainty 
copperprint,  unlike  what  any  of  his  class  would  have 
done.  In  music,  too,  his  choice  was  cultivated  ;  I 
would  have  no  one  believe  that  I  am  an  instrumentist 
of  any  skill,  yet  I  do  manage,  with  some  luck,  to  express, 
at  least,  part  of  the  composer's  meaning,  when  my 
hands  travel  idly  over  the  keys  of  my  Broadwood  ; 
ragtime,  let  me  say  it  frankly,  appeals  very  little  to 
my  taste,  and  I  was  surprised  (and  delighted  beyond 


W.  J.  LOCKE  109 

words)  when  I  saw  Bob  nestle  close  to  me  while  I 
was  rendering  Rachmaninoff's  beautiful  serenade. 

This  delicacy  of  senses  I  strove  to  educate  in  him, 
perhaps  a  little  sad  at  heart,  when  all  was  said  and 
done,  at  not  being  the  one  to  initiate  him  to  truth 
and  beauty — yet  proud  withal  at  being  chosen  by 
Fate  to  pursue  what  had  been  so  marvellously  begun. 
Sometimes  I  surprised  myself  longing  to  meet  my 
predecessor,  the  old  Frenchman,  who  had  probably 
died  of  despair  and  poverty  in  the  loathsome  surround- 
ings of  Mile-End  Road.  And  one  day,  I  unearthed 
the  reason  of  my  ward's  remarkable  question  ;  he 
had  often  asked  me  about  Paris,  without  condescend- 
ing to  unravel  the  mystery  of  his  curiosity.  No  doubt 
I  happened  to  touch  a  sensitive  chord  in  his  vibrating 
soul.  Instantly  he  responded.  Bob  had  been  en- 
trusted by  his  old  master  with  a  mission  of  love  :  the 
poor  old  man  had  made  him  promise  to  go  to  Paris 
as  soon  as  he  could,  in  order  to  call  upon  Lyonnais' 
sister,  who  was,  it  appeared,  much  younger  than  he. 
Bob  had  always  kept  his  mission  within  call  of  his 
memory.  He  knew  the  address,  16,  Rue  du  Cherche- 
Midi.  He  showed  me,  with  a  glow  of  triumph  in  his 
eyes,  the  vast  sum  of  one  pound,  two  shillings  and 
ninepence  halfpenny,  which  he  had  collected  towards 
the  journey.  His  hoarding  had  began,  I  am  sure,  by 
a  farthing  at  a  time,  and  but  for  the  happy  chance  of 
our  meeting,  I  am  afraid  it  would  still  have  been  far 
below  anything  worth  mentioning.  .  .  . 

"Bob,"  I  said,  "to-day  week,  we  shall  be  in 
Paris." 

I  saw  two  tears  swell  into  his  eyes,  and  trickle 
slowly  down  his  cheeks.  What  matter  tears  when 
the  heart  is  overflowing  ?  After  he  had  cried  a  little, 
after  the  manner  of  children  and  women,  he  became 


no  RATHER  LIKE.... 

still  more  confidential.  His  face  was  radiantly  beauti- 
ful as  he  told  me  the  name  of  his  old  protector's  sister 
— Nicole  it  was — a  quaint,  old-fashioned,  girlish  name, 
rich  with  lingering  echoes  of  Villon  and  Ronsard,  and 
smiling  memories  of  mischievous  eyes  among  rose 
arbours  .  .  .  How  old  would  she  be  now  ?  I  could 
but  conjecture,  of  course  ;  Bob  always  referred  to 
his  late  friend,  as  "  old  M.  Lyonnais  "  ;  a  Frenchman 
who  has  come  over  to  England  as  a  teacher  of 
languages,  and  failed  in  the  attempt — Mile  End  Road 
meant  failure — may  die  at  any  age,  of  course,  but 
he  must  be  pretty  far  gone  in  years  not  to  make  a 
last  attempt  to  lay  his  aching  bones  in  his  own  dear 
country,  especially  when  he  has  a  sister  there.  So 
I  formed  a  mental  picture  of  Mile.  Nicole  :  I  saw 
a  wizened  petite  vieille  who  would  beckon  us  from  the 
threshold  of  her  little  logement  on  the  sixth  floor  of  a 
dingy  house,  a  quiet  old  maid,  with  a  white  cotton 
bonnet  round  her  crumpled  chin  and  grey  hair  .  .  . 
Well,  in  another  week  I  would  see  her  hi  the  flesh, 
and  Bob  might  at  least  be  easy  in  his  mind  about  that 
last  promise  of  his. 


Of  the  journey  itself,  of  Bob's  wonder  at  the  (to 
him)  tremendously  long  drive  from  Charing  Cross  to 
Dover,  of  his  delight  at  the  sea  passage  (the  Channel 
was  really,  as  a  hearty  sailor  put  it,  a  duck  pond), 
and  his  excited  cries  on  setting  foot  on  French  soil 
and  in  a  French  train,  I  shall  say  nothing,  beyond 
mentioning  them.  Used  as  he  was  to  crowds  of  all 
description,  he  could  not  help  his  bewildered  expression 
as  we  at  last  scrambled  out  on  to  the  platform  of  the 
Gare  du  Nord,  in  the  bustle  and  haste  of  a  great  Paris 


W.  J.  LOCKE  in 

terminus,  compared  to  which  even  those  of  London 
bear  quite  a  mild  and  tame  aspect.  We  drove  to  a 
quiet  hotel  in  the  little  Rue  des  Beaux-Arts,  where  I 
am  always  welcome  on  my  flying  visits. 

I  love  Paris;  I  love  to  lose  my  golden  moments 
amid  its  grey  walls  and  smiling  gardens — just  as 
other  cranky  old  gentlemen  love  to  lose  their  um- 
brellas. Further,  I  took  in  at  a  glance  that  Bob  was 
delighted  and  awed  at  the  same  time.  Does  not  the 
realisation  always  come  as  a  stunning  blow  after  the 
dream  ?  And  yet,  who  is  ever  so  completely  sophisti- 
cated as  to  be  content  with  the  dream  ?  Certainly 
not  Bob  Chaynero — and  no  more  am  I,  thank  God. 

The  next  morning  we  spent,  after  a  delightful  early 
breakfast — do  you  remember  those  luxurious  "  crois- 
sants "  that  melt  on  the  palate,  just  as  the  voice  of  a 
divine  singer  melts  on  the  soul  ? — among  the  sunny 
arbours  of  the  Luxembourg,  whose  eternal  youth 
smiles  on  the  dwindling  centuries.  Bob  felt  the  charm 
of  the  quaint  elegance,  so  distant  from  anything  he 
had  ever  seen  before,  and  it  was  in  this  transfigured 
atmosphere  of  the  soul  that  we  traced  our  steps,  in  the 
afternoon,  to  the  old  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi.  The 
street  is  a  narrow,  old-fashioned  thoroughfare,  still 
preserving  its  aged  sculptured  porticos  and  some  of  its 
gabled  roofs,  and  number  16  turned  out  to  be  one  of 
the  oldest-looking  houses  among  its  brethren.  A 
ferocious-eyed  concierge  told  us,  with  unexpected 
courtesy,  that  Mademoiselle  Lyonnais  lived  en  the 
second  storey  of  the  front  stairs.  Thither  we  went, 
and  Bob  himself  rang  the  bell,  while  I  could  not  help 
noticing  the  tremor  that  passed  all  over  his  body. 

There  came  a  light  patter  of  feet,  the  door  opened, 
and  I  saw  a  youthful  face  smiling  on  us. 

"  Monsieur  demande  .      .  ?  " 


H2  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  Mademoiselle  Nicole  Lyonnais  habile  bien  id  ?  " 
came  my  cautious  answer,  in  a  French  that  was  not, 
I  am  afraid,  flawless. 

"  Oui,  Monsieur — c'est  moi-meme  .  .  .  Donnez- 
vous  la  peine  d'entrer." 

Shade  of  Penelope,  here  was  a  shock !  Mile.  Nicole 
was  quite  a  girl,  certainly  less  than  thirty  ;  moreover, 
she  was  very  pretty,  and  her  smile  would  have  melted 
an  iceberg  (to  say  nothing  of  a  hardened  bachelor). 
Bob,  of  course,  was  less  surprised  :  to  him  a  girl  of 
twenty-five  would  appear  quite  old  ;  his  eyes,  however, 
told  their  own  tale,  and  I  knew  he  would  get  on  very 
well  with  Mile.  Nicole. 

She  showed  us  into  a  cosy  little  salon,  in  which 
no  trace  of  want  could  be  detected.  I.  confess  I  was 
exceedingly  embarrassed  ;  our  hostess  added  to  my 
confusion  by  her  next,  remark. 

'  You  must  let  me  give  your  little  boy  a  bonbon," 
she  said  lightly,  producing  a  box  of  pralines  which  she 
enticingly  held  up  to  Bob's  eager  eyes. 

"  I  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  I  am  afraid  he  is  not  my  little 
boy,"  1  hastened  to  add,  "  though  I  always  do  my 
best  to  consider  him  as  such."  And  I  plunged  head- 
long into  explanations,  which  ended  (after  a  consider- 
able length)  by  my  mentioning  the  existence  of  M. 
Lyonnais. 

Two  tears  pearled  on  her  deep  grey  eyes.  "  What !  " 
she  exclaimed,  "  Henri  is  in  London  after  all !  I 
believed  him  to  be  in  Amazonia.  He  went  away  when 
I  was  quite  a  little  girl — he  was  my  elder  by  twenty 
years.  .  .  .  and  I  never  dreamt  him  to  be  so  near. 
But  I  must  go  to  him  at  once  :  you  will  tell  him,  won't 
you  ?  " 

I  was  forced  into  giving  further  explanations,  more 
involved  and  more  painful  than  the  others.  Her 


W.  J.  LOCKE  113 

brother  was  evidently  a  demi-god  to  Mile.  Nicole,  and 
the  news  of  his  misery  and  death  (for  I  could  not 
withhold  them  any  longer)  made  more  tears  rush  to 
her  passionate  eyes.  I  did  my  best  to  deal  out  the 
bad  news  as  gently  as  possible,  after  the  way  you 
read  (in  books)  of  elderly  gentlemen  behaving  to 
young  girls. 

To  say  I  failed  in  the  attempt  is  merely  to  express 
a  truism  ;  nevertheless,  my  attitude,  at  any  rate, 
convinced  our  hostess  of  the  sincerity  of  my  sympathy, 
and  I  felt  she  did  not  resent  my  patting  her  hand  in 
a  fatherly  way,  while  Bob  (youth  permits  these  things, 
alas,  when  age  forbids  them !)  resolutely  clasped  his 
small  arms  round  her  pretty  neck,  and  kissed  her. 

When  the  tears  stopped,  and  the  sobs  began  to 
calm,  Nicole  became  a  little  more  confidential.  Now, 
a  young  girl's  confidences  are  full  of  details,  but  she 
generally  manages  to  leave  out  the  important  ones. 
With  some  interpolations,  however,  I  succeeded  in 
securing  her  story,  which  was,  after  all,  quite  banal  in 
its  simplicity  :  she  had  been  left  an  orphan  at  the 
tender  age  of  five  ;  her  brother,  Henri,  who  had  just 
completed  a  brilliant  course  of  studies  at  the  Ecole 
des  Mines,  finding  himself  penniless  with  a  baby  to 
support,  had  no  choice  but  to  accept  a  situation  far 
out  in  Brazil,  at  Bacabal,  in  the  heart  of  Amazonia, 
where  some  copper  and  tin  mines  had  been  located; 
by  so  doing  he  transgressed  the  French  military  law, 
and  forfeited  his  right  to  come  back  to  France  for  a 
long  term  of  years  ;  yet  how  could  he  do  otherwise  ? 
The  child  he  left  in  Paris,  under  the  custody  of  an  old 
servant  (who  had  died  when  Nicole  reached  the  age 
of  twenty-two)  to  whom  he  forwarded  quarterly 
drafts  to  minister  to  their  small  wants.  How  Lyon- 
nais  had  fallen  from  his  comparative  eminence  at 
7 


114  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Bacabal  to  the  depths  of  Mile  End  Road,  will  ever 
remain  a  mystery  to  me,  Bob  being,  of  course,  unable 
to  shed  any  light  upon  it.  Be  it  as  it  may,  Lyonnais 
continued  to  provide  his  sister  with  modest  sums  of 
money,  which  decreased  as  time  went  on  ;  they  were 
always  sent  from  Amazonia,  however,  and  he  never 
dropped  a  hint  as  to  his  present  surroundings.  The 
girl  had  managed  to  make  both  ends  meet,  thanks 
to  rigid  economy  (at  the  outset)  and  to  her  being  able 
to  give  a  few  odd  lessons  (she  was  a  fairly  good  English 
and  German  scholar)  which  kept  her  in  comparative 
luxury.  Then,  some  time  ago,  she  had  ceased  to 
receive  any  news  of  her  brother  ;  and  Bob  had  been 
the  unexpected  means  of  making  her  acquainted 
with  the  reason  of  his  silence. 


Our  stay  in  Paris  proved  to  be  longer  than  I  had 
intended  before  setting  out ;  who  can  foretell  his 
actions  even  a  week  beforehand,  except  he  be  one  of 
your  pragmatic  human  machines,  that  have  time  neither 
for  the  unexpected  nor  for  the  pleasant,  and  whose 
every  thought  stops  short  at  the  hated  word  "  utility  "  ? 
Our  stay  in  Paris  was  in  no  way  useful,  nay,  but  it 
was  divine — or  rather,  it  was  just  human,  with  that 
delicious  mingling  of  budding  happiness,  present 
pleasure,  and  far-off  unreclaimable  sorrow  that  alone 
makes  our  life  worth  living.  Of  course,  I  often  went 
to  see  Mile.  Nicole,  and  Bob  grew  her  special  favourite. 
Perhaps  it  was  this  common  sympathy  that  was  the 
initial  delinquent — perhaps  the  little  god  would  have 
pierced  me  otherwise  with  his  burning  shafts  ;  the 
cause  I  know  not ;  but  my  aversion  to  bachelorhood 
seemed  to  dwindle  daily  under  Mile.  Nicole's  deep 


W.  J.  LOCKE  115 

grey  eyes,  as  a  long  preserved  snowflake  melts  under 
the  rays  of  April  sunshine.  In  former  days  I  would 
not  have  dreamt  of  doing  some  of  the  silly  things  I 
became  guilty  of :  I,  the  book-worm,  the  pedant,  the 
solitary  owl,  might  be  seen  taking  a  smiling  girl  and 
a  boy  in  knickerbockers  on  the  penny  steamers  to 
Saint-Cloud,  and  the  delightful  haunts  of  Meudon, 
wild  as  the  wildest  "  rapin,"  full  of  a  bohemianism 
that  was  all  the  more  bohemian,  no  doubt,  because 
it  had  been  so  long  pent  up.  .  .  . 

After  all,  why  should  I  go  on  ?  My  delicious 
dream,  which  began  so  unexpectedly  in  the  Rue  du 
Cherche-Midi,  will  cease  no  more  while  God  keeps  my 
breath  on  this  earth  ;  I  am  writing  this  amid  the  roses 
of  my  Surrey  country-house  (Eden  could  have  been 
no  different)  ;  Nicole,  my  wife,  is  calling  me  in  to  tea, 
while  her  loving  eyes  hover  from  a  twelve-year-old 
boy  sitting  near  me,  to  a  dimpled  baby  screaming 
with  laughter  in  his  arms. 


n6  RATHER  LIKE.. 


H.   G.   WELLS 

THE  FINDING  OF  LAURA 
CHAPTER  I 

THE   NEW  PLANET 

§    1 

OF  course,  it  is  all  very  obvious  and  quite  natural 
to  us  who  live  in  the  22nd  century,  but  to  the 
primitive  men  and  women  who  existed  about 
2050,   over   a   hundred  years   ago,   the   whole   thing 
bordered  on  the  marvellous — that  obsolescent  realm 
of   fuzzy-headed   ignorance   and   fungoid   growth   of 
erroneous  learning. 

That  would  be  just  about  the  time  that  Ferrers 
had  created  his  first  model  of  hyper-atomic  motor, 
bringing  the  long  and  laborious  researches  of  Lesage, 
Tomkins,  and  Guglielmo  to  a  sound,  if  unexpected, 
conclusion.  The  presumptuous  men  of  those  early 
days  would,  of  course,  be  inordinately  proud  of  a 
machine  that  gave  them  about  six  million  H.P.  to 
the.  gramme  ;  (it  is  useful  to  remember  that  the  first 
motor  founded  on  atomic  dispersion  barely  gave  a 


H.  G.  WELLS  117 

thousandth  part  of  that,  and  yet  our  distant  ancestors 
went  clean  head  over  heels  with  joy  at  the  thought 
of  possessing  what  was,  to  them,  such  a  condensed 
form  of  energy).  Zuccolo,  I  believe,  was  the  first 
to  make  use  of  the  Ferrers  motor  for  any  really  original 
purpose,  and  he  constructed  an  antiquated  species  of 
self-propelling  sphere,  that  just  managed  to  defeat 
the  acceleration  of  gravity  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
earth,  pursued  its  puny  course  through  ether,  and 
was  eventually  attracted  by  the  power  of  gravity 
towards  some  other  celestial  globe.  .  .  .  But  this 
bold  outline  of  facts  is  by  now  known  to  everyone 
with  the  slightest  taste  for  historical  erudition,  and 
I  need  not  dwell  upon  it  further  than  by  mentioning 
that  Harvey  and  Jones  were  the  first  two  Telluric 
men  who  set  foot  on  another  globe  than  theirs,  the 
former  on  the  moon,  the  latter  on  Mars 

§// 

Little  by  little,  our  ancestors  discovered  the  less 
near  planets,  and  even  ventured  to  some  of  the  most 
visible  stars,  It  is  difficult  for  us  to  comprehend  the 
extraordinary  enthusiasm  that  our  grandfathers  evi- 
denced for  the  exploration  of  the  cosmic  bodies  ;  now 
that  we  have  a  thrice  daily  service  from  our  North 
Pole  to  the  Equator  of  Neptune  (with  restaurant  accom- 
modation), such  nonsensical  emotion  seems  altogether 
out  of  place.  But  let  us  not  forget  that  we  are  looking 
at  the  past  from  the  angle  of  the  present  times  ;  if 
we  try  to  focus  our  spiritual  lens  at  the  correct  distance 
of  time,  all  these  things  become  clearer. 

Little  by  little,  as  I  remarked,  all  the  globes  become 
known  to  our  race — not  without  difficulty,  of  course, 
on  account  of  the  feeble  speed  that  could  be  extracted 


n8  RATHER  LIKE.... 

from  the  Ferrers-Zuccolo  shooting  sphere.  Those 
were  the  days  of  compressed  oxygen,  and  albumin- 
tabloids  .  .  .  Still,  our  ancestors  mastered  most  of 
the  planets,  including  Uranus  and  Neptune,  and  their 
satellites  ;  one  audacious  man  of  those  days  (I  forget 
his  name  for  the  moment)  was  even  so  fortunate 
(aided  by  a  happy  fluke  in  ethereal  trade-vibrations) 
as  to  drop  clean  on  to  Sirius. 

§  /// 

Then  it  was  that  H.  G.  Laurence,  F.T.S.S. — (those 
were  the  opening  days  of  the  Telluric  Science  Society) 
made  his  discovery  of  a  new  planet.  He  founded  his 
calculations  on  the  perturbations  of  Uranus,  and 
was  rewarded  just  as  his  erstwhile  predecessor  Lever- 
rier  (  a  now  forgotten  astronomer,  who  flourished  in 
the  igth  century)  had  been — with  the  exact  co-ordin- 
ates of  his  perturbing  body.  All  the  observatories 
were  turned  toward  the  spot  located  by  Laurence, 
and,  sure  enough,  at  the  appointed  hour,  there  appeared 
the  newcomer  in  our  little  collection  of  planets. — I 
say  "  at  the  appointed  hour  " — but  that  is  not  strictly 
correct,  the  new  planet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  putting 
in  its  appearance  about  seven  minutes  later  than  the 
scheduled  time.  The  fact  was  overlooked,  of  course, 
and  simply  put  down  to  a  slight  error  in  Laurence's 
computations,  though  he  always  maintained  them  to 
be  strictly  accurate.  Anyway,  his  planet  was  named 
Laura,  and  he  was  immensely  proud  of  his  discovery, 
and  full  of  a  spirit  of  benevolent  waggery  towards 
anyone  who  had  appeared  to  doubt  his  assertions. 
He  was  elected  P.T.S.S.  for  ten  years,  because  his 
achievement  was  considered  to  be  quite  the  highest 
thing  that  could  possibly  be  done  in  that  period  of 


H.  G.  WELLS  119 

time,  and  he  was  awarded  the  first  solid  helium  medal 
the  Telluric  Science  Society  ever  gave  any  of  its 
members. 

Of  course,  Laurence  had  not  only  calculated  the 
co-ordinates  of  his  planet  for  a  given  time,  but  he 
had  also  computed  its  distance,  diameter,  specific 
weight,  age,  chemical  constitution,  and  so  on.  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  ostensibly  remarkable  or  ir- 
rationally novel  in  all  these  figures — beyond  the  fact 
that  its  average  distance  from  the  Earth  was  some- 
thing over  double  that  of  Neptune. 

§   IV 

There  was  something  tragically  humorous  in  the 
endeavours  made  to  explore  Laura,  as  all  the  other 
planets  had  been  explored.  Of  course,  the  distance 
was  great  (for  the  time  :  remember  all  that  is  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago),  but  the  fact  of  Sirius 
having  been  reached  laid  aside  that  objection  before 
it  was  even  formulated. 

All  the  keenest  cosmic  explorers  of  the  day  set 
out,  in  what  was  then  the  latest  cry  of  Ferrers-Zuccolo 
shooting  spheres  ;  men  like  Gerald  Brown  and  Leon 
Lambert,  the  most  foolhardy  and  enterprising  of  their 
kind,  made  attempt  on  attempt.  Some  of  them  even 
took  Neptune  as  a  secondary  starting  point ;  some 
tried  Uranus  instead,  as  nearer  the  new  planet's  latest 
position  ;  they  perfected  their  motors,  and  dropped 
every  milligramme  of  superfluous  weight ;  but  it 
remains  a  fact  that  they  never  reached  the  planet 
Laura.  Somehow,  when  they  got  within  anything 
like  reasonable  distance  of  it,  they  regularly  had  a 
break-down  in  their  motors,  or  some  petty  disturbance 
stopped  their  further  advance ;  one  of  these  would-be 


120  RATHER  LIKE.... 

explorers  even  goes  the  length  of  saying  that  he 
was  beginning  to  see  the  mountains  and  lakes  on 
Laura's  surface  (through  his  wireless  optoscope,  of 
course),  when  a  gust  of  swelling  ether  forced  him  back 
again,  and  he  had  to  take  refuge  on  one  of  the  secondary 
satellites  of  Jupiter. 

And  just  at  the  same  time  there  began  to  be 
greater  errors  in  the  locating  of  the  new  planet.  It 
became  more  and  more  in  advance  over  its  scheduled 
time,  and  the  fact,  of  course,  drew  attention  to  the 
initial  seven  minutes  lateness  when  it  had  first  been 
discovered.  And  then,  suddenly,  it  seemed  to  disap- 
pear :  however  sharp  the  observatories  proved  them- 
selves to  be,  Laura  was  sharper  still,  as  if  it  took 
pleasure  in  mocking  both  the  astronomers  and  the 
explorers. 

Everybody  felt  the  keenest  interest  in  the  mystery, 
and  Laurence  himself  was  clean  baffled  by  it.  He 
did  all  his  calculations  over  and  over  again,  and  had 
them  looked  through  by  his  most  eminent  colleagues  ; 
but  they  found  no  trace  of  an  error — and  Laura  con- 
tinued to  be  as  unfindable  and  unapproachable  as  ever. 


H.  G.  WELLS  121 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   COUNTER-GRAVITY 

M 

It  will  be  remembered  Green's  anti-gravity  screen 
was  discovered  in  the  opening  months  of  2051.  The 
principle  of  the  apparatus  was  not  unlike  Faraday's 
classical  electric  screen  (Faraday  was  a  primitive 
igih  century  scientist,  now  hardly  remembered,  but 
fairly  well  known  in  his  day)  ;  by  means  of  a  wire 
netting  through  which  an  alternative  electro-telluric 
current  was  switched  on  and  off,  the  effects  of  gravity 
were  more  or  less  completely  counterbalanced — suffi- 
ciently so,  at  all  events,  for  the  men  of  those  days 
to  be  quite  proud  of  the  discovery.  Of  course,  they 
had  not  yet  mastered  the  correct  nature  of  the  force 
of  gravity,  and  still  clung  to  Newton's  obsolete  views 
on  the  subject. 

With  the  aid  of  Green's  rudimentary  apparatus, 
it  at  all  events  became  possible  to  experiment  upon 
what  were  then  new  and  undreamt-of  sensations. 
Non-gravity  aviation  became  an  everyday  matter, 
and  travel  over  the  surface  of  the  earth  mere  child's 
play.  The  idea  was,  of  course,  for  the  aviator  to 


122  RATHER  LIKE 

ascend  to  some  distance  from  terra-firma  (any  distance, 
though  greater  than  the  altitude  of  the  highest  moun- 
tains), and  then  to  switch  on  his  Green  anti-gravity 
screen.  When,  in  the  course  of  its  customary  rota- 
tion, the  earth  had  turned  beneath  him  so  as  to 
present  him  with  a  view  of  his  destination,  he  switched 
off  the  screen,  and  suffered  gravity  to  put  him  down 
where  he  wanted  to  go.  There  was  hardly  any 
expenditure  of  energy,  and  the  entire  process  was  so 
gluckingly  simple,  that  it  always  remains  a  mystery 
that  it  had  not  been  thought  of  earlier. 

But  it  is  hardly  useful  dwelling  on  so  well-known 
a  subject. 

§77 

Of  course  everyone  still  remembers  the  sensation 
that  arose  from  the  flights  of  R.  W.  Rugban.  He 
was  a  simple  bottle-washer  in  Green's  laboratory, 
and  a  man  without  any  special  scientific  culture. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  to  a  lucky  freak  of  his  that  the 
men  of  those  days  owed  the  clearing  up  of  the  mystery 
that  flocculated  around  the  planet  Laura. 

Rugban  conceived  the  idea  of  adapting  an  anti- 
gravity  screen  to  one  of  the  Ferrers-Zuccolo  shooting 
spheres,  the  hyper-atomic  motor  producing  the  electro- 
telluric  current  necessary  to  the  mechanism  of  the 
screen.  There  was  no  ultimate  motive  about  this 
idea  of  the  bottle-washer's — it  was  simply  one  of  those 
lucky  flukes  without  which  all  the  genius  of  our 
greatest  scientists  can  produce  but  rudimentary 
results,  without  attaining  objective  certainty. 

Naturally,  the  adapting  of  the  Green  screen  to 
the  shooting  sphere  entailed  no  gain  of  motive  power, 
the  expenditure  in  electro-telluric  current  being  far 


H.  G.  WELLS  123 

greater  than  the  gain  due  to  the  annihilation  of  gravity 
near  our  planet.  That  is  probably  why  no  scientific 
man  had  thought  of  the  combination.  But  the  fact 
remains  that  Rugban  actually  landed  on  Laura  on 
his  fourteenth  flight. 

He  proved  his  assertion  beyond  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt,  by  bringing  back  with  him  a  fragment  of  Laura 
soil — which  contained  the  (then)  unknown  body  of 
Laurium,  characterised  by  Laurence's  statement,  and 
located  in  Laura's  spectrum,  while  the  planet  had  been 
visible.  Further,  he  was  able  to  give  the  accurate 
distances  between  Laura,  Uranus  and  the  Earth,  and 
the  observatories  were  thus  enabled  to  hit  upon  the 
mysterious  planet  once  more.  That,  however,  was 
not  for  any  considerable  length  of  time.  Laura  still 
kept  ahead  of  its  computed  position,  and  it  was  at 
last  ascertained  that  its  trajectory  could  not  possibly 
be  the  one  Laurence  had  assigned  it,  in  accordance 
with  all  the  astronomical  laws  then  known. 

§  /// 

The  revelation  came  with  Rugban's  fifteenth  flight, 
when  he  set  foot  on  Laura  for  the  second  time,  and 
triumphantly  brought  back  one  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  elusive  planet.  It  was  a  curiously  shaped 
creature,  with  three  legs  and  five  arms,  a  head  of 
sorts,  and  a  body  not  unlike  those  that  populate  the 
smaller  satellites  of  Neptune.  The  curious  and  salient 
fact  about  the  Lauran,  however,  was  that  it  insisted 
on  standing  on  its  hands,  that  were  provided  with  a 
species  of  vacuum-sucking-knobs,  and  thus  got  so 
firm  a  grip  of  everything  it  was  put  upon  that  it 
became  well-nigh  impossible  to  move  it.  The  Lauran 
explained  by  signs  how  anxious  it  was  not  to  be  shot 


124  RATHER  LIKE.... 

out  of  the  terrestrial  atmosphere,  and  when  Rugban 
started  the  anti-gravity  screen  above  the  creature's 
feet,  it  began  to  quake  and  shiver  with  terror.  It 
calmed  down  as  soon  as  the  current  was  switched  off, 
and  again  lost  itself  in  voluble,  if  incomprehensible, 
explanations. 

They  tried  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  Lauran's 
torrent  of  words,  but  it  was  impossible  to  make  any- 
thing of  them  without  the  help  of  a  proper  interpreter. 
Green  called  Lug-Hsn,  the  ex-Neptune  native,  who 
seemed  to  catch  the  gist  of  what  was  being  said. 
And  then  the  explanation  came,  perfectly  simple  and 
convincing. 

On  the  planet  Laura,  said  the  new-brought  creature, 
weight  was  a  negative  force  ,  everything  was  attracted 
into  space,  away  from  the  planet's  atmosphere.  Of 
course,  all  the  living  species  had  to  be  provided  with 
vacuum-sucking-knobs  in  order  to  remain  on  the 
planet  at  all  —  and  that  was  why  the  Lauran  had  been 
so  frenzied  lest  he  should  lose  hold  of  the  Earth.  The 
law  of  inverse  ratio  to  the  square  of  the  distance  had 
been  proved  to  exist  by  the  Lauran  scientists,  but  this 
was  a  centrifugal,  and  not  centripetal,  force,  on  their 
planet. 


Naturally,  the  whole  aspect  of  the  case  was  com- 
pletely changed  ;  Laurence  immediately  resumed  his 
computations,  founding  them  upon  a  change  of  sign 
in  his  equations.  It  was  child's  play  to  deduce  the 
true  trajectory  of  the  new  planet  —  a  hyperbola,  of 
course,  instead  of  the  customary  ellipse.  It  had  been 
an  astounding  stroke  of  good  luck  that  Laura  had 
been  discovered  at  all  ;  it  was  just  in  the  region  of  the 


H.  G.  WELLS  125 

curve's  centre  when  Laurence  had  made  his  sensa- 
tional discovery  ;  but  now  it  was  already  speeding 
through  ether  along  one  of  its  asymptotic  branches. 

Laura  became  the  converging  focus  of  all  the 
observatories  once  more,  and  they  were  able  to  trace 
its  flight  nearer  and  nearer  its  located  asymptote,  till 
at  last  its  distance  became  greater  than  the  power 
of  even  the  greatest  equatorials  then  existing,  and 
the  new  planet  disappeared  for  ever  from  our  field  of 
vision. 


126         RATHER  LIKE.. 


THE  AUTHOR  OF   ELIZABETH  AND  HER  GERMAN 
GARDEN  ' 

SUSAN  AND  HER  GERMAN  SAUSAGE 

~JHJEBRUARY  $2nd.— I  love  my  kitchen.  I  am 
Jl  standing  in  it  just  now — a  kitchen  so  enticing 
that  merely  to  glance  at  it  makes  you  wish  to 
remain  there  for  ever  and  ever.  There  is  an  enormous 
fireplace  on  one  side,  with  a  row  of  steaming  sauce- 
pans gently  floating  their  warm  fragrance,  as,  I 
suppose,  good  and  pure  souls  exhale  some  of  their 
goodness  on  all  surrounding  dreary  or  sordid  ones. 
It  has  three  solid  oak  tables,  so  much  alike  in  their 
every  detail,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  tell  one 
from  another,  if  they  were  not  set  in  different  places 
along  the  wall,  so  that  you  are  bound  to  note  exactly 
where  they  stand.  I  have  given  them  names,  so  that 
I  may  know  exactly  where  everything  is  :  I  remember 
I  put  the  pink  tray  on  the  January  table  and  the  salt- 
cellar on  the  March  table,  while  the  August  table 
is  reserved  for  the  sausage-machine.  It  seems  rather 
natural  that  the  sausage-machine  should  be  put  on 
the  August  table  ;  it  is  a  sort  of  poetic  justice  that 
induced  me  to  do  so,  and  I  feel  the  satisfaction  of 
duty  done.  Not  that  I  always  do  my  duty  :  it  is 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  ELIZABETH  ..."      127 

sometimes  so  disagreeable  that  I  just  long  to  tread 
the  smiling  fields  of  Pleasure,  right  into  the  pleasant 
worlds  of  Whim,  where  I  wander  happily,  plucking 
now  and  then  a  flower  of  Surprise,  and  breathing  the 
luxurious  fragrance  of  Forbidden  Things.  I  know  I 
should  not  lose  sight  of  the  tedious  path  of  Duty  ;  but 
then,  who  does  not  ?  And  why  has  Duty  chosen  such 
a  narrow  and  thorny  way  ?  If  it  really  wanted  every- 
body to  walk  along  it,  why  couldn't  it  turn  itself  into 
a  beautiful  highroad,  shaded  with  sprightly  elms  and 
respectable  poplars — a  road  along  it  which  it  could 
expect  people  to  set  forth  without  longing  to  leave 
it  at  every  moment  ?  But  I  suppose  all  these  things 
are  explained  in  text-books,  and  that  is  just  the  reason 
why  I  never  read  any,  because  I  like  mysteries  to 
remain  mysterious  ;  I  can't  understand  all  the  clever 
people  cudgelling  their  brains — it  does  seem  rather  a 
pity  to  cudgel  even  brains — in  order  to  explain  things, 
or  to  pass  them  over  as  unimportant — preferably,  I 
think,  to  pass  them  over  as  unimportant — when  it 
would  be  so  easy  just  to  leave  them  alone.  Whenever 
I  feel  like  wishing  to  explain  anything,  I  have  found 
my  best  way  out  of  the  difficulty  is  to  turn  reposefully 
to  my  August  table,  and  coax  a  yard  of  sausages  out 
of  the  patient  and  friendly  machine. 

It  is  really  more  an  instrument  of  art  than  a  mere 
culinary  tool.  It  has  a  shining  nickel-plated  paunch, 
into  which  I  love  pressing  pieces  of  cold  joint,  and  its 
handle  is  just  the  dearest  little  handle  you  can  im- 
agine. You  turn  it  round  just  like  the  Italian  round 
the  corner  turns  his  organ  ;  but  my  sausage-machine 
has  the  great  advantage  of  being  soundless, — at  least, 
when  it  is  well  oiled  and  all  in  order.  Sometimes  there 
seems  to  be  something  wrong  with  its  woi^s,  and  it 
insists  on  emitting  a  series  of  strange  noises,  like  the 


128  RATHER  LIKE.... 

mewing  of  a  new  kitten.  But,  after  all,  what  do 
sounds  matter  ?  Sounds,  I  have  been  told  are  but 
the  vibrations  of  the  air  around  us,  and  it's  simply 
no  use  trying  to  get  away  from  them.  I  can  under- 
stand dodging  things  like  being  wet  or  falling  in  a 
temper,  because  they  are  localised  and  fleeting  ;  but 
it  seems  so  utterly  useless  trying  to  run  away  from  a 
vibration ;  why,  the  more  you  run  away  from  it, 
of  course,  the  more  it  insists  on  following  you,  and 
every  place  is  full  of  mischievous  echoes  that  simply 
drop  into  your  ears.  You  might,  of  course,  try  stop- 
ping them  with  cotton-wool,  but  that  looks  so  ugly 
that  I've  never  had  the  courage  to  do  so.  And, 
besides,  noise  does  no  harm  ;  you  can  listen  for  a 
sound,  and  listen,  and  listen,  without  ever  growing 
tired  of  it,  without  being  a  whit  the  worse  for  it, 
while  so  many  other  things  one  generally  doesn't 
think  of  avoiding — things  like  red-hot  pokers,  or 
knives,  or  needles — are  harmful  to  an  extent  that 
amazes  me  to  think  of. 

The  noise  made  by  my  sausage-machine  when  I 
have  forgotten  to  clean  it  out  chimes  in  beautifully 
with  the  groaning  of  the  large  kitchen  clock  in  the 
corner.  The  sausage-machine  says  : 


and  the  clock  answers  back  : 


in  a  solemn  bass  voice  that  brings  out  the  charming 
melody  of  the  treble.  They  do  it  over  and  over  again, 
and  I  am  quite  sure  it  must  be  some  profound  truth 
they  are  doing  their  best  to  tell  me,  but  I  am  fright- 
fully sorry  I  can't  understand  their  language. 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  "ELIZABETH  ..."      129 

Languages  are  so  important  things  that  I  often 
wonder  why  each  of  us  doesn't  invent  one  for  his  own, 
special,  private  use,  instead  of  being  obliged  to  bow 
to  what  so  many  people  have  put  down  as  the  law. 
Those  that  astonish  me  especially  are  the  clever 
people  who  know  several  of  them — languages,  I  mean  ; 
— and  I  often  wonder  why  they  should  have  taken 
the  trouble  of  learning  such  a  lot  of  funny  sounds  that 
must  go  on  mixing  themselves  up  in  their  heads  till 
they  can't  know  what  they  mean  or  what  they  say. 
I  suppose  it  is  my  own  superfluous  amount  of  inability 
to  learn  anything  that  makes  me  pity  the  linguists  ; 
but  pity  them  I  certainly  do,  and  I  simply  cannot 
feel  a  spark  of  admiration  for  a  man  because  he  happens 
to  know  a  thing  I  don't  want  to  learn.  And  that  is,  I 
suppose,  the  true  spirit  of  Christian  modesty,  for  I 
don't  gaze  with  envy  on  my  neighbour's  language. 

January  46th. — I  made  at  least  three  yards  of 
sausage  this  morning,  and  feel  perfectly  virtuous 
about  them — the  more  so,  as  I  like  them,  and  shall 
enjoy  them  at  dinner  this  evening.  They  are  pink 
and  soft  and  greasy,  rather  like  Evil,  I  am  afraid — 
though  most  of  the  Moralists  always  insist  on  de- 
picting Evil  as  black  and  rigid.  But  then,  what  can 
the  Moralists  know  of  Evil  ?  If  they  had  anything 
like  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  it  (or  should  it  be 
with  her  ?)  they  would  be  Moralists  no  longer,  but 
Immoralists,  I  suppose  ;  and  no  one  who  has  not 
simply  wallowed  in  sin  can  appreciate  the  ecstasy 
of  doing  so.  It  is  an  astonishment  to  me  that  so  few 
people  seem  to  think  any  good  of  Evil,  and  hardly 
any  at  all  dare  speak  in  her  favour ;  which  must  be 
attributed,  I  submit,  to  the  fear  they  live  in  of  other 
people  knowing  them  as  they  really  are.  What  one 


130  RATHER  LIKE.... 

really  is,  one  would  ever  keep  to  oneself ;  at  least, 
most  of  us  would  ;  and  I  suppose  we  must  appear  very 
ugly  indeed  to  our  own  eyes,  that  we  should  always 
insist  on  wearing  a  mask.  The  mask  we  wear  is  what 
the  world  calls  our  individuality ;  sometimes  it  is 
bright  and  smiling,  sometimes  wan  and  melancholy, 
as  often  as  not  it  is  turned  into  a  leering  grin ;  but, 
however  repulsive  it  may  be,  we  seem  to  prefer  it  to 
our  own  complexion.  Of  course,  sometimes  the  mask 
is  but  an  unduly  thick  coat  of  rouge  and  poudre-de-riz, 
and  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  complexion,  in  this 
case,  must  be  exceptionally  distasteful. 

And  yet,  when  I  meditate  on  things  generally — 
and  my  kitchen  provides  me  with  plenty  of  quiet  hours 
for  meditating — I  can't  help  thinking  how  much 
simpler  it  would  be  for  everybody  to  throw  over  the 
mask- wearing  habit,  As  no  one  appears  to  be  de- 
ceived by  it,  it  wouldn't  really  change  anything  at  all, 
but  it  would  simplify  matters  exceedingly — especially 
matters  relating  to  toilet  and  etiquette.  The  only 
losers  thereby  would  be  the  people  who  advertise  in 
magazines  for  somebody  or  other's  Beauty  Restorer, 
or  for  Mrs.  So-and-So's  Newest  Library  of  Deportment. 
And  that  really  wouldn't  matter  a  great  deal,  because 
all  those  people  could  easily  set  about  doing  something 
else — making  sausages,  for  instance — which  would  be 
a  great  advantage  to  all  concerned  :  they  would  easily 
get  over  it ;  people  do. 

The  cook  gave  me  notice  to-day,  because  of  an 
indigestion  she  says  she  suffered  from  last  night. 
That's  the  worst  of  cooks  :  either  they  can't  cook 
at  all,  and  you  have  to  send  them  away,  or  they  can, 
and  they  give  you  notice  for  some  reason  or  other. 
On  the  whole,  I  don't  know  whether  I  don't  prefer 
the  former  variety,  because  it  is  always  easier  to  make 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  ELIZABETH  ..."      131 

shift  with  a  cook,  even  though  she  be  a  bad  one,  than 
with  no  one  at  all.  Still,  I  hope  my  present  one  will 
reconsider  her  decision — which  she  may  very  well  do 
aft  :  dinner,  as  she  belongs  to  the  latter  class,  and 
T  nad  much  trouble  inducing  her  to  come  at  all.  She 
is  an  able  cook,  as  I  just  remarked,  but  she  appears  to 
like  putting  things  out  of  their  places.  She  always 
will  put  the  pink  tray  on  the  March  table,  and  believes 
the  January  table  would  be  utterly  unhappy  were  it 
not  to  bear  the  salt-cellar  ;  as  to  my  sausage-machine, 
I  never  let  her  touch  it,  so  I  am  sure,  at  all  events, 
that  it  always  remains  augustly  settled  on  the  August 
table.  I  like  to  see  to  it  that  things  are  always  put 
away  where  they  belong  to,  and  seeing  to  it  makes 
me  feel  like  an  empress  in  the  middle  of  her  Council 
(if  empresses  do  hold  Councils).  He  misses  much 
who  doesn't  delight  in  ordering  things  to  behave 
properly,  for  things,  like  men,  are  addicted  to  the  per- 
nicious habit  of  getting  out  of  order  and  generally 
making  messes  of  themselves.  Of  course,  everybody 
knows  that  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter,  if  dropped  on 
the  floor,  will  always  fall  butter  downwards,  especially 
if  the  floor  happens  to  be  dusty  ;  also  if  you  sharpen 
your  pencil  when  in  a  hurry,  you  are  sure  to  break  off 
the  point  and  cut  your  finger.  It  is  a  knack  things 
possess,  but,  like  most  other  knacks,  it  is  possible  to 
get  the  better  of  them  ;  in  the  former  case,  the  simple 
remedy  is,  of  course,  not  to  eat  butter,  and  in  the 
latter,  never,  under  whatever  circumstances,  to  use 
a  pencil. 

Only  the  other  day  I  reaped  a  complete  victory 
(I  don't  know  whether  victories  are  really  ever 
"  reaped  "  :  certainly  nobody  ever  sows  them)  over 
a  pair  of  tongs  that  were  inordinately  vicious.  They 
simply  refused  to  pinch  anything  :  whenever  you 


132  RATHER  LIKE.... 

tried  to  coax  them  into  getting  hold  of  a  lump  of  coal, 
they  were  sure  to  let  it  drop  in  the  most  inconvenient 
places — especially  if  the  lump  happened  to  be  red-hot. 
I  tried  all  sorts  of  ways  to  train  those  tongs  into 
better  behaviour ;  but  no  wiles  of  mine,  and  no 
strength,  seemed  to  prevail ;  they  had  been  too  badly 
educated  from  the  very  beginning.  But  at  last,  just 
as  I  was  despairing  of  success,  I  hit  upon  the  in- 
genious plan  of  giving  those  tongs  to  a  poor  relative 
of  mine  who  has  just  married  :  thus,  at  one  and  the 
same  stroke,  I  got  rid  of  the  silly  things  that  were 
making  my  life  a  misery — and  of  the  poor  relative 
who  was  nearly  as  great  a  nuisance.  I  think  that 
is  the  true  secret  of  success,  and  I  give  it  gladly  to  all 
those  who  feel  downhearted  :  simply  to  make  the  most 
of  anything  that  comes  your  way. 

But  why  waste  a  thought  on  things  so  abstract  as 
the  secret  of  success  ?  They  may  delight  those 
frivolous  persons  who  have  nothing  to  do  in  life  but 
chatter  idly  and  do  nothing,  but  they  are  nothing  to 
me,  because  I  always  have  my  occupation  waiting 
for  me  on  the  August  table.  In  fact,  I  am  sorrowfully 
amazed  at  the  quantity  of  humans  who  seem  to  have 
no  interest  in  life  beyond  the  fleeting  realms  of  vain 
ideas  unceasingly  brought  to  light,  when  they  would 
so  greatly  prefer  remaining  hidden  beneath  simple, 
sterling  facts.  Why  can't  all  these  poor  human 
brethren  turn  to  an  active  occupation,  like  mincing 
meat  and  turning  out  sausages  ?  It  would  be  so  much 
better  for  them.  But  then,  they  simply  won't  realise 
it. 


C.  N.'AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         133 


C.   N.    AND   A.   M.   WILLIAMSON 

THE  FIRST  HEAVEN 
I 

The  Hon.   Richard  Crossworth  to  his  mother,  Lady 
Crossworth,  at  Interlaken,  Switzerland. 


HOTEL  DE  FRANCE  ET  D'ANGLETERRE, 
FONTAINEBLEAU,  MAY  I7TH. 

DEAR  MATER, 

First  of  all,  you've  just  got  to  wish  you  were  me  ! 
That  seems  rather  a  silly  manner  of  beginning  a 
letter,  but  things  have  been  moving  along  at  such  a 
pace,  that  I'm  quite  beside  myself,  and  it's  really  not 
easy  at  all  to  start  in  the  ordinary  filial  way  I  should 
feel  bound  to  use  if  I  were  just  a  good  little  boy 
writing  to  his  dear  mamma. 

As  it  is,  I'm  going  to  have  the  time  of  my  life — and 
I'm  only  sorry  you  can't  be  there  to  wish  me  luck, 
because  everything  will  be  in  full  swing  by  the  time 
you  could  get  here — and  besides,  I  shouldn't  be  here 
any  more  if  you  did.  But  perhaps  I  ought  to  try 
cind  start  explaining  matters. 


134  RATHER  LIKE.... 

When  I  left  you  at  Interlaken — Switzerland,  you 
know,  is  really  no  end  of  a  bore  to  a  fellow  who  likes 
to  do  things — I  hardly  dreamed  I  should  be  called 
upon  to  assume  the  part  of  Perseus  or  Bellerophon  or 
St.  George,  or  any  of  those  fellows  who  got  mixed  up 
with  dragons  and  things  ;  but  that's  exactly  what 
I'm  doing  now.  My  dragon  is  a  fairly  good  specimen 
of  the  family  ;  its  name  is  Otis  K.  Stayvesant,  of 
Detroit,  Mich.  And  all  I  can  say  is  that  it — or  shall 
I  say  he  ? — jolly  well  looks  the  part.  I  saw  him  for  the 
first  time  yesterday,  at  a  little  restaurant  at  Bois- 
le-Roi,  and  he  immediately  struck  me  as  •  being  a 
miserable  bounder.  He's  stoutish  and  red  and  over- 
dressed, with  a  lot  of  rings  on  his  fingers,  and  quite 
too  many  diamonds  on  his  cuffs  and  shirt  front  (fancy 
wearing  diamonds  on  a  motor  tour  !),  and  he's  got  a 
wife  who  looks  perfectly  miserable  and  intensely 
tired  of  him.  But  she's  not  the  one  I'm  worrying 
about :  I  daresay  she  married  him  for  his  money — and 
I  suppose  she's  got  jolly  well  what  she  deserved.  Of 
course,  I  couldn't  help  noticing  things  while  we  were 
having  dejeuner  in  the  garden — such  a  nice  dejeuner 
it  was,  too  ;  quite  simple,  you  know,  but  so  exquisitely 
nice  that  you  wonder  why  you  go  to  Palace  Hotels 
and  Ritzes  and  places  like  that,  where  they  give  you 
gilded  plaster  and  swells  in  evening  dress  to  wait  on 
you,  when  you  can  have  such  jolly  little  meals  in  nice 
little  places  like  Bois-le-Roi.  But  I'm  afraid  I  must 
begin  to  philosophize.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I 
couldn  t  help  noticing  how  Otis  K.  Stayvesant  (I  saw 
his  name  on  the  visitors'  book)  was  treating  his  wife 
and  the  servants  generally,  and,  after  all,  I  shouldn't 
have  minded  if  he  hadn't  been  outright  bullying 
a  girl  who  is  with  them — a  poor  relation,  I  should 
think,  or  a  superior  kind  of  lady's  maid  or  travelling 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         135 

companion.  He  hardly  let  her  eat  a  single  mouthful, 
poor  girl :  he  was  always  at  her  with  his  "  Evelyn, 
just  you  go  and  fetch  Mrs.  Stayvesant's  smelling- 
bottle  " — or  anything  else  he  happened  to  think  of ; 
"  Evelyn,  I'm  sure  there's  a  draught — you  go  and 
shut  that  window  "  ;  "  Evelyn,  go  and  tell  that  con- 
founded waiter  to  hurry  up  with  the  chicken,"  and 
so  on,  endlessly.  Of  course,  the  poor  creature  went 
each  time — and  there  was  not  even  a  look  of  resent- 
ment in  her  deep  blue  eyes  as  she  left  the  table  on 
these  fool's  errands.  In  fact,  that  was  just  what 
attracted  my  attention  :  if  I'd  been  treated  in  anything 
like  the  same  manner,  I  know  I'd  have  growled  at 
the  dragon  ;  at  any  rate,  I'd  have  shown  him  by  my 
face  what  I  thought  of  him.  But  this  girl  did  nothing 
of  the  kind  :  she  seemed  to  be  amused  at  her  ordeal ! 
Just  think  of  being  amused  when  you  are  ordered 
about,  and  your  succulent  dejeuner  is  left  to  get  cold 
while  you  tend  to  some  preposterous  or  imaginary 
want  of  an  Otis  K.  Stayvesant !  I  tell  you  I  felt  like 
getting  up  and  kicking  him. 

However,  I  succeeded  in  mastering  that  impulse 
(and  I'm  not  at  all  sorry  now,  as  you  shall 
presently  see) ;  I  looked  on,  making  a  wry  face 
at  the  Dragon,  and  (I  think)  a  sympathetic  one 
at  Andromeda — I  mean  Evelyn.  (Don't  you  think 
Evelyn  is  such  a  sweet  little  name  ?).  Anyway,  this 
Evelyn,  whatever  her  name,  is  a  beautiful  young 
girl  with  blue  eyes  (I  believe  I  mentioned  them 
before)  and  exquisite  blonde  hair,  just  of  the  right 
hue,  not  stupidly  flaxen,  and  not  aggressively  coppery. 
She  is  just  like  a  picture  by  Henner,  with  a  sort  of 
diaphanous  mist  round  her — a  saint's  aureole,  a  poet 
would  call  it — which  just  makes  you  wish  to  gaze  at 
her  and  be  good.  But  I  mustn't  let  this  letter  be  a 


136  RATHER  LIKE.... 

simple  catalogue  of  Evelyn's  fascinations.  (I  can  see 
you  smiling  rather  ironically  at  this  sentence  :  but 
don't  you  fall  into  the  mistake  of  believing  her  to  be 
mendacious  with  all  her  beauty  ;  all  her  bearing  was 
modesty  itself,  and  her  good-humour  throughout  her 
ordeal  was  what  initially  attracted  my  attention.) 

Well,  after  that  meal  (I'm  sure  she  must  still  have 
felt  hungry  when  the  Dragon  had  feasted  himself  to 
a  nicety),  they  got  into  their  motor  (a  great,  big,  ugly, 
brand-new  140  H.P.  Daimler)  and  Otis  K.  Stayvesant 
himself  sat  at  the  wheel.  (Why  he  had  no  chauffeur 
I  really  don't  know,  but  I  greatly  suspect  the  reason 
is  that  he  can't  find  one,  all  the  previous  ones  having 
been  bullied  out  of  his  service.)  Anyway,  I  followed 
in  my  little  green  50  H.P.  Renault  (the  one  you  bought 
me  in  Paris  last  month,  a  dear  little  runner)  and  I 
followed  the  party  at  a  convenient  distance.  The 
Dragon's  driving  was  somewhat  erratic,  but  he  never 
put  on  enough  speed  to  make  it  dangerous,  not  even 
in  a  forest ;  and  he  kept  hooting  and  tooting  in  such 
a  wild  manner  that  I'm  perfectly  sure  all  the  little 
squirrels  must  have  been  frightened  to  death.  (The 
squirrels  in  the  Fontainebleau  Forest  are  quite  the 
liveliest  little  creatures  you  can  imagine).  And  after 
lots  of  swaggering  curves  and  unheard-of  roundabouts, 
they  eventually  reached  this  place — the  smartest  in 
Fontainebleau,  despite  the  new-fangled  efforts,  and 
stucco-magnificence,  of  the  Savoy. 

Naturally,  I  followed  them,  and  that's  why  you 
see  the  heading  of  "  Hotel  de  France  et  d'Angleterre  " 
on  this  letter  (else,  I  suppose,  I  should  have  gone  down 
south,  and  stopped  at  some  picturesque  place  like 
Dijon).  I  did  the  following  without  any  pre-ordained 
intention  :  you  see,  I  happened  to  feel  interested  in 
the  little  group,  and  just  wondered  what  the  Dragon 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         137 

was  going  to  do  next — there  were  so  many  caddish 
things  he  might  have  been  up  to.  But  what  he 
actually  did  was  quite  beyond  my  utmost  expectations. 

You  see  the  Dragon  is  rather  a  rotter  at  speaking 
French.  There  is  nothing  particularly  remarkable  in 
that,  of  course,  and  I  suppose  I'd  be  just  as  bad  if  I 
hadn't  happened  to  spend  four  years  in  Paris  under 
the  artistic  care  of  Monsieur  Balimbostock  (dear,  good, 
sincere,  living  old  fellow !)  who  took  me  through  a 
course  of  the  Ecole  des  Beaux-Arts.  ...  As  it  is,  I 
was  strolling  through  the  hotel  garage  (and,  I  am 
afraid,  in  rather  a  neglige  costume — that  of  a  motorist 
who  has  attended  his  steel  Pegasus),  when  I  saw 
myself  confronted  with  Evelyn  herself,  with  that  good- 
natured  smile  of  hers  playing  about  her  mouth.  She 
did  not  recognise  me,  of  course — she  had  hardly  had 
time  to  notice  anything  around  her  during  the  dejeuner 
at  Bois-le-Roi — and  she  evidently  thought  I  was  one 
of  the  hotel  hands  in  charge  of  the  garage. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,"  she  said  in  fluent  French, 
and  with  the  suspicion  of  a  blush,  "  vous  ne  connai- 
triez  pas  un  pilote  d'aeroplane  ?  " 

I  stared  hard  for  a  moment,  but  something 
prompted  me  to  play  the  game.  So  I  just  enquired 
for  further  particulars,  and  I  heard  that  Otis  K. 
Stayvesant — "le  Monsieur  dont  j'accompagne  la 
femme  " — was  trying  to  find  a  suitable  aeroplane, 
provided  with  a  chauffeur,  to  take  the  party  over  for 
a  trip  to  the  south  of  France  ;  it  appeared  he  had  got 
tired  of  his  beastly  Daimler  (I  suppose  that  meant 
he  didn't  care  to  drive  her  himself),  and,  moreover, 
he  had  sent  her  about  the  place  (her,  of  all  people  !) 
to  discover  the  object  of  his  latest  whim. 

I  think  the  average  fellow  in  my  boots  would  have 
gone  and  done  something  sill}'  at  that  stage — would 


138  RATHER  LIKE.... 

have  gone  and  had  a  few  frank  words  with  the  Dragon, 
and  knocked  some  sense  of  decency  into  his  silly  head  ; 
and  it  would  have  served  him  jolly  well  right ;  but 
it  might  not  have  been  particularly  useful  to  the  girl 
— on  the  contrary,  in  fact,  as  she  was  evidently  de- 
pendent on  him.  So  I  just  concentrated  my  thoughts 
for  a  miute  or  two,  and  told  her  I  knew  exactly  the 
chap  her  "  Monsieur  "  was  in  need  of,  and  would  get 
him  to  call  upon  Otis  K.  Stayvesant  within  two  hours. 
She  thanked  me  for  what  she  called  my  "  amabiliteY' 
and  returned  indoors, — and  I — I  ran  back  to  my  little 
Renault,  and  bolted  over  to  Barbizon. 

Of  course,  you  know  Jean  Langlois  is  staying  at 
Barbizon  ?  You  remember  him,  don't  you  ?  He's 
quite  a  brick  of  a  fellow,  a  downright  artist  in  his 
way,  only  with  altogether  too  swell  an  income  to 
devote  himself  to  his  talent ;  and  he  messes  about 
with  all  sorts  of  hobbies,  the  latest  of  which  is 
aviation.  I  knew  he'd  just  got  hold  of  a  250  H.P. 
Bleriot  biplane,  with  the  duckiest  little  cabin  im- 
aginable, and  I  remembered  it  in  good  time.  Well, 
to  cut  the  story  short,  I  was  lucky  enough  to  find  him 
at  home,  and  to  get  him  to  lend  me  his  aeroplane  for 
three  or  four  days — though  I  didn't  let  him  in  to  all 
the  private  details  you've  got  the  privilege  of  knowing. 

Anyhow,  I  was  back  again  before  the  two  hours 
were  over,  and  boldly  asked  to  see  Otis  K.  S.,  who 
was  having  tea  in  the  garden.  He  looked  me  up  and 
down,  and  asked  me  (rather  aggressively)  what  I 
wanted. 

"I'm  an  aeroplane  chauffeur,"  I  replied,  quite 
pleasantly,  and  in  English  (you  ought  to  have  seen 
Evelyn  start  !). 

"  Wa-11,"  he  responded,  turning  towards  the  poor 
girl,  "  so  you  weren't  tryin'  to  get  at  me,  after  all  ... 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         139 

All  right,"  he  continued,  this  time  for  my  especial 
benefit,  "  I  want  you  to  take  my  little  party — there's 
my  wife  and  myself,  and  my  wife's  companion,  here — 
for  a  fly  to  the  south — and  money  no  objection.  What's 
your  price  ?  " 

He  certainly  had  rather  direct  methods  of  trans- 
acting a  piece  of  business,  but  on  the  whole,  I  preferred 
rapidity — and  efficiency — just  then.  I  was  rather  in 
a  hole  to  get  at  a  suitable  figure,  but  I  managed  it  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  I  proposed  £200  for  the  trip — 
and  might  have  said  either  double  or  half  that  sum, 
for  all  the  attention  he  seemed  to  pay.  But  he  didn't 
lose  sight  of  the  financial  side  of  the  question  for  all 
his  apparent  inattention,  for  he  calmly  said,  "  That'd 
be  inclusive,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  I  rejoined.  And  the  bargain  was 
struck.  I  was  to  have  accommodation  at  the  same 
hotels  as  my  patrons,  and  we  were  to  start  on  the 
morrow. 

I  told  him  "  my  "  machine  was  at  Barbizon,  and 
that  it  would  be  necessary  for  them  all  to  "  embark  " 
there,  as  it  was  impossible  to  start  an  aeroplane  in 
the  middle  of  a  forest.  He  seemed  rather  disgusted 
at  first,  but  cooled  down  when  I  offered  to  drive  the 
party  over  to  the  starting-ground.  And  so  the  thing 
was  settled. 

I  felt  rather  "  cheap  "  when  I  had  left  the  Dragon, 
and  was  trying  to  sneak  unnoticed  to  my  own  room  ; 
but  I  was  consoled  by  a  look  I  had  noticed  in  Evelyn's 
eyes  when  she  saw  me  arrive. 

There  now.  That's  how  I  first  took  my  steps  in  the 
gentle  art  of  dragon-fighting.  The  whole  trip  will  only 
take  three  days — trust  Otis  K.  Stayvesant  for  "  doing  " 
places  in  thorough  record  time  ;  and  after  that,  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  devise  further  means  for 
keeping  my  eye  on  him  and  his  wife's  companion. 


140  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Anyway,  I  shall  let  you  know  of  any  unexpected 
developments — though  there  oughtn't  to  be  any ; 
Jean  Langlois'  "  Albatros  "  is  the  safest  biplane  ever 
produced — so  you  needn't  be  anxious  on  my  account. 
The  primitive  cages-d-poules  in  which  T  served  my 
apprenticeship  as  a  would-be  aviator  were  infernal 
machines  compared  to  this  little  beauty. 

And  now,   good-bye,   little   mater — and  wish  me 
luck  for  to-morrow!     (And  don't  you  wish  you  could 
be  here  and  see  me  ?  ) 
Your 

DICK  CROSSWORTH. 


II 


Evelyn   Carrington  to   her   friend,  Elizabeth  Hardy, 
Laburnam  Manor,  Southfield,  Surrey. 

HOTEL  DE  LA  CLOCHE, 

DIJON,  MAY  i8th. 

MY  DEAREST  BETTY, 

Oh  !  Why  can't  you  be  here  with  me,  dearest, 
just  at  the  moment  that  is  the  moment  of  my  life, 
instead  of  losing  your  best  days  in  the  empty  round 
of  conventional  English  country  life  that  makes  my 
heart  so  unaccountably  sick  ? 

I  know  very  well  we  haven't  all  got  the  same 
tastes  in  these  matters  ;  and  it's  all  very  well  for 
you  to  reproach  me  with  what  you  call  my  "  romantic 
views  of  life  ;  "  but  I  simply  can't  bear  the  thought 
of  squandering  my  spring  days  in  shallow  society  life, 
pretending  to  be  full  of  fun  and  nonsensical 
"  maidenly  "  thoughts,  when  I  know  very  well  that 
I  am,  sooner  or  later,  to  fall  a  victim  to  some  brute 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         141 

of  a  Jason  or  Hercules.  At  any  rate,  you  know 
my  views  are  sincere,  and  that  I  have  lived  up  to 
them.  Of  course,  the  fact  of  my  having  no  family 
ties  (except  a  guardian  who  prefers  exploring  the 
centre  of  Australia — and  quite  right  he  is,  too)  and 
a  handsome  income  of  my  own,  makes  it  quite  easy 
for  me  to  gratify  my  taste  for  adventure,  and  it's 
been  quite  ducky  of  you  to  be  my  confidante  from 
the  start,  without  ever  giving  me  away.  I  haven't 
forgotten  it  was  through  you  that  I  found  my  "situa- 
tion "  as  a  companion  to  Mrs.  Otis  K.  Stayvesant, 
and  if,  to  her  and  her  husband,  I  am  simple  Evelyn 
Thompson  (it  was  better  to  take  a  nom  de  guerre)  I  know 
I  am  to  you,  the  stupid,  romantic,  idealistic  heiress, 
whom  Society  (with  a  capital  S)  knew  and  assailed 
under  the  name  of  Miss  Evelyn  Carrington  ;  but  I 
am  sure  Society  no  longer  gives  a  thought  to  me, 
now  that  I  have  set  mj'  back  on  it  since  the  last  two 
months — and  I  can't  say  I  regret  it. 

I  told  you,  in  my  previous  letters,  just  what  I 
thought  of  Mr.  Otis  K.  Stayvesant — and  his  bounder- 
ishness  has  not  at  all  decreased  since  then — in  fact, 
it  is  rather  the  reverse,  as  you  shall  see.  But  I  don't 
mind  it  a  bit ;  when  he  orders  me  about  as  is  his  wont 
(you  see,  to  him  I  am  just  an  ordinary  "  menial ") 
I  somehow  feel  inclined  to  laugh — and  I  am  sure 
that  is  the  best  thing  I  can  possibly  do.  He  has  been 
more  than  usually  sulky  since  the  last  chauffeur  gave 
notice  ;  you  see,  he  has  not  been  able  to  find  another 
yet,  and  he  feels  himself  obliged  to  drive  the  car  himself ; 
he  is  certainly  the  rottenest  motorist  I  ever  came 
across,  and  I  honestly  believe  I  could  manage  his  car 
much  better  than  he  can  (though  I  don't  suppose 
I  had  better  say  anything  about  it).  Yesterday  he 
eventually  got  us  all  out  to  Fontainebleau,  but  it  was 


142  RATHER  LIKE.... 

no  fault  of  his  if  we  didn't  break  our  necks  in  the 
forest ;  you  see,  he  has  such  original  conceptions  of 
driving,  and  swerves  the  car  all  over  the  roads  (which, 
by  the  way,  are  really  exceptionally  well  kept  in  these 
parts).  I  am  sure  Mrs.  S.  would  much  rather  travel 
by  train,  but  of  course  she  daren't  open  her  mouth  to 
her  lord  and  master  !  .  .  .  Dearest,  those  are  the  joys 
of  married  life,  and  I  feel  gladder  and  gladder  at  having 
escaped  from  them  ! 

However,  this  is  the  point  where  the  excitement 
begins.  It  was  at  Fontainebleau  that  my  "  employer  " 
hit  upon  a  really  brilliant  idea,  and  achieved  a  first- 
rate  caddish  act ;  he  conceived  the  plan  of  leaving  the 
Daimler  at  the  garage,  and  "doing"  the  rest  of  the 
southern  trip  by  aeroplane.  Don't  you  think  that's 
perfectly  glorious  ?  But  now  comes  the  Stayvesant- 
ishness ;  he  actually  ordered  me  to  set  about  hunting 
a  suitable  aviator.  Just  think  of  that! 

But  you  know  it's  not  my  method  to  cry  over 
spilt  milk — and,  besides,  there  wasn't  any  spilt  yet — 
so  I  just  went  over  to  the  hotel  garage,  thinking  I 
might  possibly  find  someone  who  could  give  me  the 
required  information,  or  at  any  rate,  something  to  go 
on  with.  And  I  came  across  a  Chauffeur  (I  spell  the 
word  with  a  capital  C  for  reasons  which  you  shall 
see  later  on).  This  Chauffeur  seemed  just  an  ordinary 
human  being  who  had  been  attending  to  his  usual 
round  of  duties  ;  but  there  was  something  about  him 
that  made  me  pick  up  courage  and  address  him. 
Dearest,  he  had  none  of  those  brutish  looks  that  I 
have  generally  noticed  about  most  men  I  have  come 
across  ;  he  actually  looker!  pleased  with  his  lot.  And, 
for  a  Frenchman,  he  had  exceedingly  fair  hair — much 
more  like  lots  of  Englishmen,  in  fact,  that  most  of  his 
countrymen  ; — and,  somehow  or  other,  he  reminded 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         143 

me  of  Lady  Crossworth  ;  I  really  don't  know  what  it 
was — the  peculiar  grey  of  his  eyes,  perhaps — or  the 
curve  of  his  lips.  .  .  .  Well,  anyhow,  I  asked  him, 
in  my  most  faultless  French,  whether  he  knew  of  any 
aviator  who  would  undertake  to  convey  us  to  the 
South  of  France,  via.  .  .  .  over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

He  might  have  burst  out  laughing  outright ;  in 
fact,  I  half  thought  he  would  ;  he  seemed  rather 
flabbergasted.  But,  to  my  surprise  and  immense 
gratification  (as  the  lady  novelists  would  say),  he 
answered  quite  simply  that  he  did  know  a  suitable 
man,  and  would  tell  him  to  call  on  Mr.  Stayvesant 
that  very  afternoon. 

And,  true  enough,  the  man  turned  up — and  who'd 
you  think  it  was  ?  Dearest,  just  imagine :  it  was 
my  Chauffeur  himself !  He  didn't  seem  taken  aback 
by  my  "  employer's "  bluntness  (lack  of  manners 
would  be  a  better  term  for  it),  and  eventually,  every- 
thing was  settled  to  their  mutual  satisfaction.  He 
(the  Chauffeur  that  is)  was  to  drive  us  over  to  Barbizon 
the  next  morning,  and  thence  we  were  to  start  upon 
our  flying  tour  (that  seems  to  be  the  right  expression, 
doesn't  it  ?). 

By  the  way,  the  Chauffeur  speaks  English  beauti- 
fully ;  in  fact,  I  have  never  met  a  Frenchman  with 
a  better  accent — which  only  shows  how  stupid 
language  prejudices  are.  Also,  I  didn't  speak  to  him 
when  he  came  back  in  his  new  capacity  of  aviator, 
but  I  couldn't  help  feeling  glad  to  have  him  as  the 
general  conductor  of  the  plan ;  he  seems  such  a 
reliable  sort  of  fellow — and  I  am  sure  we  all  need 
one  like  him  after  Mr.  Stayvesant's  experiences  at 
the  wheel. 

All  that  occurred  but  yesterday,  but  it  feels  so 
long  ago,  that  I  really  don't  know  exactly  what  has 


144  RATHER  LIKE.... 

come  over  me.  Everything  seems  so  far  away,  and 
so  bright  and  lovely — I  really  can't  explain  it  ;  it 
must  be  the  Air  ! 

Have  you  ever  been  in  an  aeroplane  ?  I  mean  a 
really  good,  sweet,  quiet,  touring  aeroplane,  with  a 
carrosserie  just  like  that  of  a  motor-car,  and  no  silly 
bits  of  wood  or  steel  wire  hanging  about  everywhere, 
without  a  nauseating  smell  of  oil  and  petrol,  and  all 
those  disagreeable  nothings  that  were  the  disgrace 
of  the  first  flying  machines  ? 

Ours  is  called  "  L'Albatros,"  and  it  deserves  its 
name.  It  is  all  nice  and  white  and  polished  on  the 
outside,  and  the  cabin  is  full  of  creamy  cushions,  and 
nickel-plated  flower-stands,  and  cut-glass  mirrors, 
and  everything  else  that  can  be  expected  of  a  really 
decent  aeroplane.  And  it  has  a  white  bonnet,  with 
two  twelve-cylinder  silent  motors,  and  just  the  sweetest 
of  varnished  propellers. 

Of  course,  Mrs.  Stayvesant  and  her  lord  and  master 
got  into  the  cabin,  and  after  all  their  luggage  had  been 
crammed  into  it  too,  there  was  hardly  any  room 
left  for  me.  The  Chauffeur — just  imagine  the  polite- 
ness of  these  French  people ! — noticed  it  before  even 
I  had  time  to  do  so,  and  proposed  I  should  sit  outside 
at  the  wheel,  beside  him  ;  he  said  he  had  plenty  of 
furs  and  rugs — and  he  had  ;  so  in  the  end  I  accepted, 
much  to  the  joy  of  Mr.  S.,  who  was  thus  afforded  a 
good  opportunity  of  bullying  his  little  wife,  without 
any  tierce  personne  to  interfere. 

Oh,  that  first  flight  !  Dearest,  I  shall  not  even  try 
to  describe  it.  It  was  like  merry-go-rounds  and 
switchbacks  and  waltzes  and  skating  and  motoring 
all  rolled  into  one  !  It  was  perfectly  divine  I  (That's 
one  of  those  words  that  are  being  so  sorrowfully 
misused  at  the  present  moment ;  but  now  I  know 
exactly  what  it  means.) 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON          145 

At  first  I  felt  just  a  wee  tiny  bit  afraid,  and  I  was 
glad  not  to  be  shut  up  inside  the  cabin — though  that 
was  a  perfectly  stupid  thought,  because  if  anything 
happened  it  wouldn't  have  mattered  a  jot  where  I  was, 
of  course.  .  .  .  But  nothing  did  happen,  and  I  felt 
nothing  could  happen,  as  long  as  our  Chauffeur  had 
charge  of  the  expedition. 

He  talked  to  me,  of  course — and  he  chose  English 
as  a  means  for  his  intercourse,  probably  because  he 
had  noticed  my  French  was  not  so  perfect  as  his 
English.  My  dear,  what  an  all-round  culture  a 
French  chauffeur  does  possess  !  He  has  travelled  all 
over  Europe  (which  is  perhaps  not  so  remarkable  in 
a  man  of  his  calling)  ;  but  also  in  America  and  Asia, 
and  he  seems  to  know  something  of  any  subject  one 
may  imagine.  In  fact,  he  is  as  well  versed  in  art  as 
any  "gentleman"  I  have  ever  met — a  good  deal  more 
so,  in  fact ;  and  when  he  speaks  of  the  tints  of  a 
picture,  or  the  plan  of  a  monument  (he  is  simply  grand 
when  he  gets  on  the  subject  of  architecture),  he  is  more 
like  a  professor  delivering  a  lecture  than  a  mere 
motorist  driving  his  engine.  But  don't  imagine  him 
as  a  pedant,  a  man  with  all  sorts  of  silly  flourishes  of 
empty  words,  like  so  many  one  meets  in  Museums  ; 
no,  he  speaks  simply,  though  excitedly,  of  the  things 
he  mentions,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  he  understands  and 
loves  them.  I  feel  sure  he  must,  have  been  an  artist 
before  he  took  on  his  present  calling  (one  of  those 
the  French  call  rates),  but  of  course  I  simply  couldn't 
broach  the  subject ;  so  I  just  sat  still  and  listened, 
putting  in  a  word  from  time  to  time,  and  doing  my 
best  to  show  him  I  appreciated  everything  he  said. 

We  didn't  fly  in  anything  like  a  straight  line  : 
you  see,  it  would  be  stupid  to  compare  our  "  Albatros  " 
to  a  silly  black  crow.     And  we  dipped  down  west,  and 
9 


146  RATHER  LIKE.... 

actually  flew  over  the   Loire   and  some   of  its   old 
ch&teaux.  .  .  .(i) 

And  that  is  how  we  arrived  at  Dijon,  our  first 
halting-place,  where  we  shall  "lie"  for  the  night  (as 
the  old  books  say). 

I  am  feeling  just  beautifully  contented  with  life, 
and  not  even  Mr.  Otis  K.  Stayvesant  could  make  me 
lose  anything  of  the  high  spirits  I  am  in  after  this 
delightful  first  flight. 

To-morrow  we  go  on,  and  shall  stop  at  Nimes 
for  lunch,  and  thence  on  to  the  Riviera.  And  then — 

Dearest,  I  am  dropping  to  sleep,  and  I  am  perfectly 
sure  I  shall  dream  of  angels,  and  albatrosses,  and  swans, 
and  all  sorts  of  sweet  things  with  white  wings — and 
perhaps  also  (a  little)  of  my  Chauffeur. 

Good-bye,    dearest ;     I   shall   let   you   have    my 
further  impressions  to-morrow. 
Your  delighted 

EVELYN. 

Ill 

Richard  Crossworth  to  his  Mother. 
HOTEL  D'EUROPE, 

MONTPELLIER,    MAY    igth. 

DEAR  MATER, 

Things  have  been  moving  rapidly  since  the  day 
before  yesterday,  but  there  is  nothing  disagreeable 
(to  me)  in  their  rapidity.  I  remember  telling  you 
in  that  first  letter,  about  my  career  as  a  fighter  of 

(i)  Here  occurs  a  break  in  the  authors'  M.S.,  but  we  advise  our 
readers  to  look  up  their  Guide  Joanne  or  their  Baedeker 
(English  Edition)  for  an  accurate  description  of  the 
scenery. — Ed. 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         147 

dragons  :  You've  got  to  wish  you  were  me  I  Well, 
that  wish  applies  stronger  than  ever  ;  just  now,  in 
fact — but  let  me  relate  everything  that  happened. 

The  first  day  of  our  aerial  journey  was  quite 
uneventful,  as  far  as  incidents  are  concerned.  Jean 
Langlois'  "  Albatros  "  is  a  beautifully-behaved  bird, 
and  the  start  from  Barbizon  came  off  quite  smoothly. 
Oh,  I  forgot  to  mention  another  of  the  Dragon's  acts 
of  caddishness : — Of  course,  he  and  Mrs.  S.  got  into 
the  cabin  as  soon  as  they  arrived  on  the  scene  ;  further, 
he  insisted  on  putting  all  their  traps  inside  with  them 
(I  suppose  he  rather  mistrusted  me,  and  imagined 
I  might  feel  inclined  to  go  through  them  if  they  had 
been  left  outside  with  me).  Well,  anyway,  there 
were  so  many  of  them,  that  there  was  absolutely  no 
room  left  for  that  all-suffering  poor  girl,  Evelyn.  So 
she  was  obliged  to  take  a  seat  beside  me.  Luckily,  I 
had  brought  a  whole  lot  of  rugs  with  me,  and  I  managed 
to  make  her  comfortable  ;  and  it  wasn't  very  cold,  as 
we  never  flew  either  very  high  or  very  fast.  And  thus 
it  came  about  that  we  were  thrown  into  conversation 
with  each  other,  because  "  quefaire  autour  d'un  volant, 
a  mains  que  I' on  n'y  cause  ?  " 

I'm  afraid  I  must  rather  have  bored  her,  because 
I  really  couldn't  switch  on  to  any  personal  talk  with 
a  girl  I  didn't  know  in  the  least,  and  who,  moreover, 
couldn't  be  told  the  truth  about  me.  So  I  began 
talking  of  Art — especially  architecture  :  the  topic 
sprang  up  quite  of  itself,  on  account  of  some  of  the 
chateaux  we  flew  over.  Still,  she  listened  as  if  she 
were  interested,  and  even  threw  in  rather  apt  remarks  : 
it  really  was  the  first  time  I  heard  a  woman  (barring 
my  little  Mater,  of  course)  express  anything  worth 
saying  on  the  subject  of  Art ;  and  1  was  immensely 
pleased  not  to  find  the  poor  creature  insufferably  dull 
— as  I  had  at  first  feared. 


148  RATHER  LIKE.... 

We  really  got  on  capitally  together,  and  by  the 
time  we  landed  at  Dijon,  we  had  both,  I  am  sure, 
got  rid  of  our  mutual  shyness  towards  each  other. 
Mrs.  Stayvesant  had  a  headache  in  the  evening,  and 
her  lord  and  master  didn't  feel  like  leaving  the  hotel. 
But  it  would  have  been  a  shame  to  miss  the  sights  of 
the  old  Burgundian  capital,  especially  on  such  a  nice 
day  as  this.  So  I  offered  to  show  Evelyn  round  the 
place,  with  the  result  that  we  spent  two  or  three 
delightful  hours. 

First  of  all,  we  went  to.  ...  (i). 

It  really  felt  as  if  all  the  glorious  past,  the 
Hundred  Years'  war,  the  Middle-Ages,  with  all  their 
chivalry  and  cruel  splendour,  were  alive  and  dancing 
before  our  eyes,  and  when  we  came  back  to  dinner, 
we  were  both  passionately  engrossed  in  "  ye  olden 
times." 

Neither  the  dragon  nor  Mrs.  S.  appeared  at 
Table  d'Hote  ;  and  that  dinner  was  simply  gorgeous. 
I  don't  simply  mean  the  food  ;  of  course,  Dijon  is  noted 
for  its  luxurious  pates,  and  we  did  ample  justice  to 
them,  as  well  as  to  everything  else  the  smiling  garpons 
set  before  us  ;  but  the  air  seemed  full  of  a  sort  of 
electrical  thrill,  that  would  have  made  even  dry  bread 
and  muddy  water  seem  a  glorious  feast.  It  was  a 
sort  of  confidential  mood,  and  I  longed  to  tell  poor, 
badly-treated  Evelyn  the  whole  truth — just  as  I  felt 
she  was  on  the  verge  of  confiding  to  me  the  story  of 
all  her  troubles — but  somehow  I  managed  to  resist 
the  temptation,  and  am  glad  I  did  so — now. 

This  morning,  Mrs.  S.  no  longer  suffered  from 
headache,  and  the  Dragon  was  as  aggressively  dragon- 
ish  as  ever  ;  but  I  let  him  be,  as  I  didn't  want  to 

(t) — -Another  break  in  the  MS.     Vide  Footnote  on  page  146 
—(Ed.) 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         149 

spoil  the  magic  of  the  day  by  any  retorts  I  might  have 
let  loose  upon  him — though  God  knows  he  deserved 
much  more  than  anything  I  might  have  said. 

The  start  was  as  perfect  as  yesterday  (really  the 
"  Albatros  "  is  a  perfect  little  flyer  !)  and,  of  course, 
Evelyn  had  to  sit  outside  again.  She  looked  somewhat 
reserved,  after  yesterday  evening's  latent  confidential 
mood,  and  we  again  spoke  of  general  subjects — history 
being  the  chief  topic  of  our  discourse. 

We  landed  at  Nimes  about  noon,  and  after  dejeuner 
resumed  our  journey  :  we  were  to  go  on  to  Nice,  and 
thence,  to-morrow,  to  "  do  "  the  Riviera.  However, 
the  gods  decided  otherwise 

At  this  stage  I  can  see  your  brows  lifting,  and  hear 
you  exclaim  something  about  an  accident.  .  .  .  Well, 
yes,  there  was  an  accident  :  though  not  a  very  bad 
one  ;  and  the  fact  that  I  am  writing  to  you  after  it 
occurred  must  set  aside  your  fears  for  good  and  all. 

It  was  just  outside  Tarascon  the  thing  occurred. 
Everything  had  been  going  so  smoothly,  I  really 
couldn't  dream  of  imagining  anything  out  of  the  way  ; 
but  there  came  a  sharp  snap,  and  the  next  thing  I 
knew  was  that  we  were  dropping  for  all  we  were 
worth.  The  more  speed  I  tried  to  put  on,  the  more 
we  seemed  to  drop — and  then  I  saw  what  was  the 
matter  :  the  propellor  was  broken.  I  tried  the  steering 
gear,  and  put  on  a  little  upward  curve — but  we  were 
far  too  low  down  for  me  to  be  able  to  perform  a  proper 
landing.  Which  is  a  warning  to  me  in  future.  I 
shall  never,  never,  never,  fly  below  a  thousand  feet. 
As  it  was,  we  had  been  hardly  above  two  hundred, 
and  I  saw  the  fields  rushing  up  towards  us  at  a  terrific 
speed.  I  put  on  all  the  upward  curve  I  could,  and 
awaited  developments.  And  then  the  crash  came. 

As  soon  as  I  felt  it  come,  I  let  go  the  wheel,  of 


150  RATHER  LIKE.... 

course,  and  took  hold  of  Evelyn,  who  was  as  pale  as 
death  :  I  wanted  to  protect  her,  at  all  events,  as  much 
as  was  in  my  power.  And  from  the  inside  of  the 
cabin  there  issued  a  mixture  of  wails  and  American 
oaths,  such  as  had  never  before  been  my  privilege  to 
hear — a  thing  I  don't  regret. 

It  was  fortunate  for  us  the  road  from  Tarascon 
to  Cette  is  grown  with  high  poplars  and  spreading 
fruit-trees.  As  it  is,  we  just  dashed  into  one  of  the 
former,  which  sent  us  spinning  on  to  one  of  the  others, 
and  thence  into  a  neighbouring  field  :  but  the  final 
drop  was  only  about  ten  feet,  and  the  field  was  a 
vineyard  that  a  thoughtful  labourer  had  just  been 
shovelling  through  and  through.  Also,  the  aeroplane 
didn't  fall  just  on  top  of  us,  but  swerved  aside — which 
just  proves  its  sense. 

There  wasn't  much  harm  done — except  to  the 
"  Albatros,"  and  the  two  poor  trees.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
S.  had  been  able  to  drop  out  of  the  cabin  before  the 
machine  touched  ground — and  I  rolled  into  the  field. 
After  a  few  minutes  of  daziness,  I  tried  to  get  up,  and 
felt  a  funny  sort  of  pain  in  my  left  arm  ;  and  I  saw  I 
couldn't  move  it  as  I  wanted  to.  Evelyn  had  fainted, 
but  she  soon  came  to,  and  she  was  only  slightly  bruised 
and  scratched.  The  next  thing  I  heard  was  the 
Dragon's  voice,  cursing  her — actually  cursing  her  ! 

"  Look  here,  you — silly  girl,"  he  yelled,  "  why 

the couldn't  you  hit  upon  a fellow  who  knew 

his  work.  You  leave  my  service  this  minute, 

you.  .  ."  and  he  kept  on  stringing  his  picturesque 
Wall  Street  oaths  together,  just  like  a  music-hall 
nigger. 

Altogether,  it  was  more  than  I  could  stand  ;  and 
I  walked  across  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Otis  K.  Stayvesant,"  I  said,  trying  to  speak 


C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON         151 

as  calmly  as  I  could  (which  was  difficult,  under  the 
circumstances)  "  you're  a  brute  and  a  cad  !  And  I 
forbid  you  to  speak  like  that  to  a  young  lady." 

"You  forbid?  "  he  blurted  out,  "you  rotten  young 
half-a-dime  flying  fool !  And  who  are  you,  to  forbid 
me  anything  I  jolly  well  please  to  do  ?  " 

And  then  I  told  him  my  name. — Oh,  Mater,  you 
should  have  seen  him  stare,  and  mumble  inarticulately 
for  at  least  five  minutes,  and  walk  about  excitedly, 
and  generally  behave  like  the  fool  he  was.  .  .  .  But 
my  enjoyment  of  his  discomfiture  was  suddenly  put 
a  stop  to  by  Evelyn's  cry. 

"What?"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  high-pitched  voice, 
"  you  are  the  Honourable  Richard  Cross  worth,  Lady 
Cross  worth's  only  son  ?  Oh,  I  thought  something  of 
the  kind.  .  ." 

That  last  phrase  of  hers  came  like  a  thunderbolt ; 
how  could  she  know  anything  about  me,  and  still 
more,  about  you  ?  .  .  . 

And  then  she  told  me  all  ...  Mater,  she's  not  at 
all  the  poor  girl  I  thought  her  to  be  ;  she's  one  of 
your  friends  ;  she's  an  heiress  ;  she's  Evelyn  Carring- 
ton !  She  ran  away  from  a  country-house  in  England, 
because  she  couldn't  bear  the  shallowness  of  society 
life  for  a  young  girl  .  .  .  She  .  .  .  She's  the  perfect- 
est  perfect  dear  I've  ever  met ! 

Mater,  congratulate  me — congratulate  us  both  !  .  .  . 
I  shall  write  again  to-morrow. 

Your  rapturous 

DICK. 


152 


RATHER  LIKE, 
IV 


Telegram    from    Evelyn    Carrington    to    her    friend, 
Elizabeth  Hardy. 


HOTEL  D'EUROPE, 

MONTPELLIER,  MAY 


DEAREST, 

Things  have  happened.  The  Chauffeur  isn't  a 
chauffeur.  He's  Dick  Crossworth.  We're  to  be 
married  at  Interlaken,  where  his  mother  is  staying. 
Congratulate  me. 

EVELYN. 


JOSEPH  CONRAD  153 


JOSEPH   CONRAD 

DAM   1M— A   REMINISCENCE 
I 

THE  man  turned  slowly  his  head  ;   something  in 
his  quiet  gaze  aroused  in  the  intricacies  of 
a  mind  used  to  analyse  the  prompt  reactions 
of  soul  upon  body  and  of  calling  and  training  upon 
mere  outer  personality  that  peculiar  interest   which, 
though  not  thrilling,  is  the  beginning  of  everything 
that  any    man   may  feel   usually  with  his  heart  or 
understand  more  or  less  incompletely  with  his  brain. 

He  was  standing  by  himself  in  the  respectable 
bar,  with  a  tankard  of  ale  within  arm's  reach  ;  a 
medium-sized,  non-commital  sort  of  man,  in  a  rather 
shabby  greyish  suit,  and  boots  that  had  long  ago 
ceased  to  be  shining.  He  might  have  been  anything 
from  a  retired  barber  to  an  unsuccessful  actor  ;  a 
labourer  in  some  way,  and  yet  perhaps  an  employer 
of  labour — a  man,  certainly,  with  a  touch  of  super- 
intendency  in  his  quiet  glance.  There  was  also  about 
him  a  hint  of  rebellion  against  the  everyday,  hum- 
drum, mass  of  human  machines;  products  of  the 
same  depressing  organism,  mere  tools  in  the  hands  of 


154  RATHER  LIKE.... 

fools  or  of  knaves,  they  went  steadily  their  ways,  like 
so  many  blind  sheep,  following  stupidly  a  still  more 
stupid  leader.  Here  was  a  fellow  with  an  individuality 
all  his  own  ;  capable  of  willing  actually  something  by 
himself,  and  of  even  carrying  through  steadily  his 
purpose.  An  uncommon  fellow,  few  like  whom  come 
to  a  man's  ken  in  a  lifetime. 

My  eyes  have  been  accustomed  since  ever  so  long, 
while  gazing  intently  at  some  object  definite,  material 
and  physical,  to,  all  at  once,  whizz  off  into  the  domain 
of  remembrance,  with  its  myriad  vistas  tragic,  beauti- 
ful or  indifferent.  This  was  now  the  case  as  I  looked 
at  the  man  ;  I  reverted  unconsciously  to  far-off  days 
under  an  ever-smiling  sun,  before  I  had  got  used  to 
shore  togs,  and  had  not  yet  exchanged  the  elemental 
sarong  for  a  square  mainsail  coat.  Unconsciously 
I  was  projected  headlong  into  the  fanciful  realm  of 
Southern  Islands,  and  my  ears  seemed  to  be  ringing 
with  the  voice  of  old  remembrance,  a  voice  mournful, 
immense  and  dear.  .  . 

But  not  only  remembrance  was  at  work  now ; 
no,  there  were  also  the  waves  of  air  at  the  proper 
length,  propagated  in  accordance  with  correct  mathe- 
matical formulas,  flowing  resolutely  into  my  brain- 
centres,  and  re-echoing  names  sundry,  bizarre  and 
unusual,  names  that  I  had  heard  already,  pronounced 
surely  in  such  a  voice  calm,  unemotional  and  exotic.  .  . 
And  suddenly  my  eyes  seemed  to  be  drawn  away 
from  their  wandering  in  the  land  of  long-ago  ;  they 
reverted  once  again  to  the  stranger,  and  noted  that 
he  was  now  speaking  deliberately,  and,  moreover, 
to  me.  He  came  slowly  forward  as  he  talked,  and  I 
began  to  situate  him  in  time  as  well  as  space.  .  .  .  And 
yet.  .  .  .  Preposterous !  .  .  .  Queer,  exotic  though 
he  appeared,  there  was  still  something  strangely 


JOSEPH   CONRAD  155 

familiar,  not  only  about  his  sunburnt  and  clean-shaven 
face,  but  in  the  whole  of  his  attitude,  and  even — yes — 
even  in  his  voice.  Then  he  uttered  a  word  that  put 
me  on  the  track  of  the  elusive  past,  like  a  black  sea 
that  pitches  suddenly  a  dreaming  sailor  to  the  precise 
spot  whither  he  was  groping  his  way  in  the  dark.  It 
was  only  a  word,  but  it  aroused  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  my  wandering  mind,  an  outburst 
of  evanescent  consciousness,  a  flicker  of  light  amongst 
the  floundering  mass  of  things  past,  of  things  half 
forgotten,  of  things  not  quite  remembered. 

"  Dam'  Im,"  was  the  word  recurring  several 
times  in  the  man's  talk  ;  and  suddenly  I  uprose  from 
my  seat — and  remembered  him. 

"  Surely  I  know  you  now,"  I  said,  "  you  are  the 
Bugis  from  one  of  the  states  of  Wajo." 

Yes,  he  was — of  course,  now,  I  knew.  His  name 
was  Dam'  Im,  and  I  had  traded  often  with  him  in  the 
harbour  of  Ucee — at  least,  he  used  to  call  grandilo- 
quently a  harbour  what  was  really  little  more  than 
a  hospitable  atoll,  behind  which  stretched  the  smiling 
sunlit  shore  of  a  little  island  crowned  in  the  distance 
by  stately  peaks  over  which  Dam'  Im  had  not  exercised 
yet  his  power.  The  kind  of  trade  I  had  indulged  in  was 
the  usual  one  for  South  Sea  ship-owners  to  commission 
their  skippers  to  carry  out :  I  used  to  smuggle  a  few 
nearly  valueless  old  rifles  to  his  shore,  hand  him  some 
rounds  of  ammunition,  and  receive  sound  dollars 
in  exchange  ;  of  course,  such  trading  was  not  without 
its  risks,  but  where  is  the  fairly  young  skipper  in  the 
merchant  service  who  will  not  run  them  all  and  be 
glad,  adding  as  they  do  their  glamour  and  spice  to 
the  favours  and  the  rages  of  the  sea  ? 

And  now  here  was  Dam'  Im  talking  to  me  under 
other  skies,  after  so  many  years  that  I  hardly  had 


156  RATHER  LIKE.... 

remembered  him  at  all.  Here  is  his  story,  which  I 
repeat,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  in  his  own  words,  only 
pausing  now  and  again  to  add  a  word,  explanatory, 
descriptive,  or  personal. 

II 

"  It  was  after  you  had  left  Ucee  for  the  last  time. 
The  white  tuans  that  came  after  you  were  not  to  be 
trusted.  I  did  not  like  them,  and  Drat'  Er,  my  faith- 
ful follower,  saw  always  the  bad  spirit  in  them. 

"  And  he  was  right.  Soon  there  began  to  dawn 
some  trouble  in  the  island.  The  Cheekis  tribe — our 
brothers  of  the  island,  with  whom  we  had  been  so 
long  at  peace — came  down  their  mountain-sides,  and 
sent  their  chief,  Bally  who,  to  parley  with  me,  Dam' 
Im,  who  had  power  and  many  lands,  and  guns  such 
as  the  Dutch  use,  and  a  large  store  of  powder.  But 
little  did  I  know  that  Ballywho  had  at  that  very 
moment  some  guns  of  his  own,  which  other  traders 
must  have  smuggled  to  his  mountains  from  the  other 
side  of  the  island.  I  knew  I  was  strong,  and  my 
followers  numerous — but  alas  !  I  knew  not  that  Bally- 
who was  also  strong,  and  fortified  with  the  weight  of 
his  wiles. 

"  He  wanted  his  tribe  to  have  the  free  run  of  Ucee 
harbour — without  any  taxes  to  pay,  mind  .  .  .  Now, 
how  could  I,  Dam'  Im,  continue  to  live  in  my  stockade, 
and  pay  dollars  for  rifles  and  ammunition,  if  the 
Cheekis  payed  taxes  no  more  ?  So  I  refused,  of  course, 
and  Ballywho  returned  towards  his  mountains  with  a 
message  of  war. 

"  Drat'  Er,  my  faithful  retainer,  exulted  in  the 
news,  as  soon  as  I  told  him.  But  conscious  of  my 
strength  as  I  was,  I  could  not  help  fearing  the  unknown 


JOSEPH  CONRAD  157 

future.  Who  knows  what  all  the  dead  ancestors  of 
my  tribesmen  thought  of  the  war  that  was  to  come — 
the  more  so  as  I  intended  to  defend  their  thatched 
roofs  no  longer  with  kriss  and  flint-headed  arrow,  but 
with  the  white  man's  fire-bullet  ?  What  would  happen 
if  Ballywho  and  his  mountain  tribe  threw  us  effectu- 
ally back  ?  .  .  .  The  night  seemed  full  of  the  unknown, 
and  the  future  loomed  ominous. 

"  The  same  night,  three  hours  after  Ballywho  had 
left  my  stockade  with  my  decision  of  war,  an  evil 
omen  clouded  my  brow.  My  pink  cat  Dearo  died 
suddenly,  in  horrible  agony  .  .  .  Deaths,  deaths, 
deaths! 

He  uprose  as  he  repeated  thrice  the  word,  and  his 
expression  was  so  serious,  so  tragic,  so  full  of  poignancy 
of  the  unknown,  that,  for  an  instant,  I  felt  the  tears 
surge  in  my  eyes,  and  sobs  rush,  strangling  one  another, 
to  the  top  of  my  throat.  ...  He  continued,  in  a 
calmer  tone  : 

"  You  say  the  dead  are  dead.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they 
are,  in  your  country  ;  perhaps  your  powerful  king 
can  kill  them  to  the  core.  But  the  chiefs  of  our  isles 
have  not  enough  strength,  and  our  dead  do  not  really 
die  ....  They  live  for  ever,  especially  at  night, 
and  they  flit  about  one,  and  whisper,  and  cry.  .  .  . 
Yes,  and  cats  are  harder  still  to  kill  than  men  and 
women.  Dearo  was  ever  present  before  my  eyes, 
in  the  rooms  of  my  campong,  in  my  prau  when  I  went 
out  to  command  the  harbour,  in  the  folds  of  my 
sarong.  He  was  always  there,  wailing,  suffering, 
dying.  .  .  . 

"  I  left  my  stockade,  I  left  my  harbour  of  Ucee, 
I  left  my  old  retainer,  Drat'  Er — and  all  for  Dearo  .  .  . 
For  Dearo  !  I  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  his  suffering 
form  in  the  peace  and  quiet  of  my  rooms — and  I  fled, 


158  RATHER  LIKE.... 

I  fled I  went  towards  the  mountains,  to 

seek  Bally  who  ;  and  ever  Dearo  was  before  my  eyes, 
suffering  agonies,  dying,  and  always  alive.  .  .  .  Alive ! 
...  I  saw  Bally  who  in  the  midst  of  his  inland  village, 
and  he  saw  me.  He  thought  I  came  as  an  enemy, 
he  thought  I  was  leading  my  warriors  to  trap  him 
in  the  dark  of  the  night.  Yes,  that  is  what  he  thought, 
while  I  was  but  poor  Dam'  Im,  fleeing  from  the  horrible 
sight  of  a  dead  cat  that  would  not  die.  .  .  . 

"  I  saw  him  lift  a  rifle  to  his  shoulder.  .  .  .  Even 
then  I  might  have  crouched,  I  might  have  fled,  I 
might  have  returned  to  Drat'  Er  and  to  Ucee  ;  but 
the  face  of  Dearo  appeared  again  before  my  eyes, 
and  I  could  not  move  ...  I  saw  a  blaze  ;  I  heard 
a  thundering,  loud,  near,  and  horrible  .  .  .  And  I 
remember  no  more.  .  .  . 

"  When  I  awoke,  I  found  myself  in  a  prau,  and 
was  soon  carried  aboard  a  white  man's  ship.  .  .  .  The 
fire-bullet  of  Ballywho's  rifle  put  me  in  the  hands  of 
my  enemies  ;  it  had,  moreover,  pinned  rny  left  arm 
to  my  side,  and  made  me  as  helpless  as  a  baby,  but 
it  must  have  also  killed  the  ghost  of  Dearo,  for,  since 
that  tragic  night,  I  saw  him  no  more  ...  no  more. 

"  I  remained  on  board  the  Sea  Dog,  and  heard  later 
that  Bally  who  was  now  master  of  Ucee.  .  .  .  But 
I  never  returned  to  my  native  shore,  lest  the  dead 
ghost  of  the  dead  Dearo  should  come  to  life  again.  .  .  . 
I  am  now  poor  and  lonely,  I  who  was  powerful  and 
a  king  in  my  own  island.  .  .  .  But  I  worship  the 
white  man's  king,  whose  fire-bullet  has  freed  me  of 
my  horrible  ghost.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  is  now  dead,  dead!  " 

I  think  he  might  have  done  worse  than  become 
a  sailor. 


H.  A.  VACHELL          159 


HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 

THE  SKIPPER 

MY  brother  A] ax  had  just  come  back  from  the 
range,  and  met  me  as  I  was  coming 
dejectedly  out  of  our  kitchen,  where  I  had 
been  trying  some  rather  unhappy  experiments  in 
cookery. 

"  I  say,"  he  called  out,  "do  you  remember  a  fellow 
called  Peterson  ?  " 

"  What  sort  of  a  fellow  ?  "  I  asked,  "  a  tramp  or 
a  millionaire  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  what  he  is  at  the  present  moment," 
he  answered,  "  though  I  should  hardly  think  he  is 
actually  a  millionaire.  But  he's  supposed  to  have 
been  at  Harrow  in  our  time." 

I  pondered  some  seconds  over  this  latter  piece 
of  information,  and  exclaimed  excitedly  :  "  Why,  of 
course  !  He  was  Bodson's  fag  ;  don't  you  remember 
him — a  chap  with  reddish  hair,  any  amount  of  freckles, 
and  enormously  large  hands  ?  .  .  .  But  what  made 
you  ask  me  ?  " 

My  brother  proceeded  to  expound  the  reason  for 
his  question.  A  man  calling  himself  Peterson  had 
applied  to  Uncle  Jake  for  our  protection,  under  the 


160  RATHER  LIKE. . . . 

delusion,  no  doubt,  that  our  ranch  was  a  sort  of  roof 
and  shelter  for  any  social  derelict  who  passed  that 
way.  In  those  days  California  was  not  by  any  means 
what  it  is  now,  and  the  number  of  luckless  Englishmen 
it  had  lured  to  an  ultimate  failure  was  considerably 
greater  than  anything  we  had  imagined  at  that  period 
of  ingenuity,  when  we  hadn't  yet  learned  that  ignor- 
ance must  always  pay  its  premium  to  experience. 
We  had  often  enough  (far  too  often,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told)  given  our  hospitality  to  passing  tramps,  and 
had  several  times  been  made  to  pay  for  our  greenness 
in  full.  Wherefore,  au  premier  abord,  as  the  French 
say,  I  felt  inclined  to  eye  any  stranger  with  mistrust 
— especially  that  kind  of  stranger  whose  first  and 
foremost  appeal  rested  on  the  worn  grounds  of  auld 
lang  syne  and  school-fellowship. 

"  I  think  we've  seen  about  enough  of  tramps  on 
this  ranch,"  I  said  quietly. 

"  Just  what  I  thought,  too,"  returned  my  brother. 
"  But  this  chap  doesn't  appear  to  be  a  tramp  at  all, 
according  to  uncle  Jake — and,  besides,  I  believe 
you're  wanted  to  do  the  necessary  jawing." 

Now,  at  least,  I  saw  what  he  was  driving  at. 
Ajax,  being  the  younger,  always  expected  me  to  take 
the  lead  in  formal  circumstances.  If  I  say  more  or 
less  than  he  deems  advisable,  I  am  let  in  for  a  sound 
rating  after  the  ceremony.  So  this  time  I  took  my 
precautions. 

"  Right  you  are,"  I  said,  "I'll  put  him  off  our 
trail  in  record  time.  Where  did  you  say  he  was  ?  " 

"  Uncle  Jake  told  him  to  wait  for  us  in  front  of 
the  big  barn,"  came  the  answer.  "  But  you  can't 
chuck  him  out  like  a  twopenny-halfpenny  beggar  who 
calls  for  a  crust  of  bread.  After  all,  if  he's  known 
us  at  Harrow.  .  ." 


H.  A.  VACHELL  161 

I  took  the  affair  resolutely  into  my  hands ;  "At 
any  rate,"  I  said,  "  I'm  just  going  to  have  a  look  at 
the  fellow." 

We  rode  off  together,  and  met  our  head  vacquero 
before  we  got  within  earshot  of  the  barn.  Uncle  Jake 
was  glad  I  had  come  out,  and  said  so.  Yes,  the  stranger 
was  still  waiting  for  us  in  the  shade  of  our  barn. 
In  reply  to  my  eager  questions,  I  elucidated  that  he 
was  not  at  all  a  disreputable-looking  loafer,  but  had 
the  air  of  a  successful  rancher.  "  He's  not  like  that 
other  Britisher  you  took  hold  of  last  year,  Mr.  Ajax," 
he  said,  turning  to  my  brother,  "  you  know,  the  one 
who  looked  like  hell  before  you  dressed  him,  and 
like  San  Lorenzo  afterwards — yes,  and  managed  to 
clear  away  with  the  money  he  took  out  of  your  safe. 
...  So  I  jus'  told  him  you'd  come  along  and  see  him." 

"  If  he's  so  respectable,"  I  put  in,  "  it  might  have 
been  advisable  to  see  him  into  the  house." 

"  There's  no  knowing,"  cautiously  replied  Uncle 
Jake,  and  Ajax  nodded  approvingly.  I  confess  that 
I  was  not  averse  to  the  same  opinion.  So,  without 
any  more  words,  both  of  us  proceeded  to  interview 
the  visitor. 

We  found  him  in  the  shade  of  the  big  barn,  looking 
calmly  at  us  as  if  we  had  met  casually  in  Piccadilly. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said  affably. 

His  voice  and  his  manner  were  equally  irreproach- 
able. Moreover,  his  aspect  was  quite  "  engaging " 
(to  use  the  French  word).  Clean,  without  even  one 
day's  growth  of  beard  on  his  square  chin,  he  stood 
up  quietly  in  all  the  dignity  of  his  neat  riding  kit, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  successful  rancher  or  a  spirited 
sportsman.  We  acknowledged  the  salutation  and  he 
went  on  :  "I  daresay  you  don't  remember  me  .  .  . 
I  see  it  in  your  faces  .  .  .  Well,  never  mind — I 

10 


162  RATHER  LIKE.... 

haven't  called  to  try  and  squeeze  a  fiver  out  of  you  .  .  . 
You  see,  I  was  just  passing  through  this  country,  and 
heard  you  had  settled  down — so  I  resolved  to  look 
you  up  ...  I  hope  you  will  pardon  the  intrusion  ?  " 

Ajax  looked  bluntly  at  him.  "  Our  head  vacquero 
reported  you  were  a  Harrow  fellow.  You  weren't  at 
Tommy's  by  any  chance  ?  " 

"  No,  mine  was  Bobby's  .  .  .  Ever  heard  of  a  chap 
they  used  to  call  the  Skipper  ?  " 

"  What !  The  Skipper,  Mathers'  special  chum  ?  " 
I  cried  out.  '  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  the 
Skipper  ?  " 

The  conviction  (indicated  by  a  pleasant  smile) 
was  apparent  on  the  stranger's  face,  and  he  went  on 
rather  more  glibly  than  before. 

'  That's  all  right.  I  gave  your  man  my  name, 
and  I  daresay  you  may  have  mistaken  me  for  some 
other  fellow.  I  believe  there  were  several  Petersons 
at  Harrow  in  my  time." 

"  Suppose,"  put  in  Ajax,  "  we  came  round  to  the 
house.  We  can't  entertain  you  very  well  out  here, 
but  we'll  do  what  we  can  indoors." 

There  was  amusement  in  the  glance  I  threw  him  ; 
however,  I  didn't  add  anything,  beyond  asking  Peter- 
son where  he  had  stabled  his  horse. 

"  Oh,  !  "  he  said,  "  one  of  your  cowboys  took  it 
inside  the  barn.  I'm  sure  it  will  get  on  very  well  as  it 
is." 

The  three  of  us  were  soon  assembled  in  our  com- 
fortable sitting-room.  We  lit  our  pipes,  and  after 
some  minutes  of  small  talk,  the  conversation  took  its 
natural  turn  towards  personal  matters.  We  discussed 
a  few  old  memories  of  our  respective  houses,  and 
then,  under  my  brother's  searching  glance,  I  managed 
to  put  in  a  question  that  was  intended  as  a  "  corker." 


H.  A.  VACHELL  163 

"  Well,  look  here,  Skipper,  I  don't  suppose  your 
only  reason  for  looking  us  up  was  to  hear  yourself 
chaffed  and  talk  over  Billy's  and  Tommy's  ?  Is  there 
anything  we  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

My  "  corker  "  went  considerably  wide  of  its  mark. 

"  The  fact  is,"  answered  Peterson,  "  I  was  passing 
through  this  part  of  California,  and  I  thought  I  might 
just  come  and  see  you  ...  I  hope  I'm  not  intruding, 
or  trespassing  on  your  time  ?  " 

"  Er  .  .  .  no,  not  at  all,"  put  in  Ajax,  as  formally 
as  he  would  have  done  in  a  Park  Lane  drawing-room. 
And  I  hastened  to  add  a  few  words  to  the  same  effect. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  Skipper,  "  how  are  you 
fellows  doing  ?  Or  are  you  down  on  your  luck  ?  " 

Now  was  the  time  for  me  to  exercise  the  gentle 
art  of  diplomacy.  I  looked  meaningly  at  Ajax,  and 
replied  rather  dejectedly  to  our  visitor. 

"  Of  course,  things  never  turn  out  so  brilliant 
as  you  hope  they  will.  I'm  afraid  my  brother  and 
I  are  rather  green  at  the  trade,  and,  of  course,  we 
can't  expect  to  succeed  at  the  outset.  The  worst 
of  it  is,  so  many  of  our  ...  er  ...  kind  neighbours 
seem  to  find  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  do  us  out  of  our 
lawful  profits — whenever  we  happen  to  make  any. 
There  was  an  old  man  named  Dumble,  who  managed 
to  swindle  those  colts  away  from  us,  and  our  inestim- 
able friend,  Laban  Swiggart,  who  successfully  "  had  " 
us  in  the  affair  of  the  fifteen  fat  steers.  .  .  .  However, 
we  don't  complain  :  we  didn't  come  out  here  to  make 
our  fortunes — so  after  all,  there  is  no  more  to  be 
said." 

Peterson  looked  ruthfully  at  us  ;  there  was  com- 
passion and  kindness  in  that  look  of  his,  and  I  confess 
that  I  felt  rather  ashamed  at  the  several  falsehoods 
I  had  concocted.  He  answered  something  about  our 


164  RATHER  LIKE.... 

being  strivers,  not  thrivers,  and  we  kept  him  to 
dinner. 

The  meal  was  rather  more  elaborate  than  those 
we  were  used  to  ;  our  housekeeper  saw  to  things, 
and  evidently  did  not  intend  that  our  guest  should 
be  impressed  by  a  rough-and-tumble  Californian 
apology  for  a  dinner.  In  spite  of  the  claret  (it  was  a 
bottle  of  Romance  Conti,  '89,  I  remember)  he  insisted 
on  retiring  very  soon  after  his  first  pipe,  pretexting 
the  necessity  of  an  early  departure  next  day.  The 
evening  passed  very  pleasantly,  however,  though 
the  conversation  was  limited  to  old-time  memories, 
"  shop  "  being,  as  by  mutual  consent,  excluded  ;  and 
in  spite  of  reiterated  offers  of  toddy,  Peterson  soon 
went  off  to  bed. 

Next  morning  I  got  up  rather  later  than  usually, 
and  my  brother  welcomed  me  on  my  appearance  with 
an  enigmatic  smile  :  "  Do  you  happen  to  remember," 
he  asked,  "  why  that  fellow  Peterson  was  nicknamed 
'  The  Skipper  '  ?  " 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked  hastily,  "  what's 
he  been  up  to  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Ajax,  "  except  that  he's  gone." 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  "  he  said  he  wanted  to  leave 
early,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  thought  he  meant  it  as 
truly  as  this.  Besides,  in  all  decency,  he  might  have 
said  good-bye  before  quitting.  ..." 

"  To  say  nothing  of  '  thank  you,'  if  not  for  the 
dinner,  at  least  for  the  wine,"  added  Ajax. 

"  Which  reminds  me,"  I  broke  in.  "  He  was 
called  the  '  Skipper '  just  for  that  very  reason  :  for 
his  fondness  of  leaving  things  undone." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  my  brother,  "  that's  better 
than  doing  those  one  shouldn't  do  at  all." 

The  words  made  me  attentive,  and  I  hastened 


H.  A.  VACHELL  165 

to  the  little  room  where  we  kept  our  burglar-proof 
safe.  There  it  was,  perfectly  intact,  and  I  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  a  despicable  fool,  when  my  eyes  alighted 
upon  a  neat  little  packet  upon  the  desk.  It  was  a 
thick  envelope,  duly  closed  and  sealed,  and  bore  the 
joint  inscription  of  my  brother's  name  and  my  own, 
in  a  large,  bold  handwriting — a  handwriting  I  did 
not  recognise,  but  immediately  attributed  to  our 
departed  guest.  I  called  Ajax,  and  we  opened  the 
packet  :  a  bunch  of  crisp  white  sheets  of  paper  ap- 
peared within  the  envelope — no  fewer  than  two 
hundred  ten-pound  Bank  of  England  notes. 

"  What  the  dickens  .  .  .  .  ?  "  I  cried  out. 

"  Well,  I'm "  ejaculated  Ajax,  whose  language 

is  apt  to  be  a  trifle  more  forcible  than  mine  on  certain 
occasions. 


We  never  heard  from  Peterson  while  we  remained 
ranching  in  California,  and  I  never  unearthed  the 
mystery  of  those  two  thousand  pounds  till  I  was  back 
again  in  England.  I  was  dining  at  Gloriani's,  which 
is  decidedly  my  restaurant  "  of  predilection  "  (to  use 
the  French  phrase) — perhaps  because  the  Glory  is 
not  there  dispossessed  by  the  Gold,  perhaps  because 
I  happen  to  be  on  friendly  terms  not  only  with  Agostino 
the  head  waiter,  but  also  with  the  padrone  himself, 
who,  for  the  rest,  resolutely  refuses  to  employ  German 
waiters.  I  was  sitting  down  to  a  luscious  tournedos 
such  as  only  a  continental  chef  can  do  to  a  nicety, 
and  \*  as  slowly  sipping  a  glass  of  old  Romance  Conti — 
'89,  I  believe  it  was — when  I  happened  to  observe  a 
man  at  a  table  near  mine,  whose  face  seemed  oddly 
familiar.  There  seemed  to  be  a  subtle  link  between 


166  RATHER  LIKE.... 

the  wine  and  the  face,  f:>r  I  became  unconsciously 
aware  that  my  neighbour  had  driven  me  from  that 
paradise  of  a  dinner-table  which  has  no  room  for 
two.  And  then,  suddenly,  I  remembered  :  the  face 
was  that  of  Peterson,  the  "  Skipper,"  the  man  whose 
visit  to  our  ranch,  years  ago,  had  been  marked  so 
vividly  in  my  memory. 

I  went  over  to  him,  and  after  the  usual  words  of 
surprise  and  welcome,  we  both  sat  down  to  the  same 
table.  While  we  were  sipping  the  wine — to  which, 
I  remember,  I  applied  a  string  of  fragrant  epithets 
of  the  west — I  suddenly  broached  the  subject  of  the 
mysterious  banknotes.  Peterson  blushed  like  a  girl. 

"  What  beats  me,"  I  added,  "  is  the  fact  that  they 
should  have  been  left  on  purpose — I  mean,  not  simply 
dropped,  lost,  or  strayed." 

So  "  striking  "  (to  use  the  French  word)  was  my 
question,  that  Peterson  set  down  his  glass,  and  said 
carefully  :  "I  thought  it  was  the  only  way  of  helping 
you." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  ejaculated,  "  that  the 
money  is  yours  ?  "  And  a  crowd  of  questions  sprang 
to  my  lips. 

"  Never  mind  that,  for  the  present,"  answered 
the  Skipper,  reverting  to  his  favourite  method,  "  the 
question  is  :  was  it  sufficient  to  keep  you  from  ruin  ?  " 

I  burst  out  laughing.  "I'm  afraid  there  has  been 
a  mutual  mistake,"  I  was  able  to  add  ;  "  you  thought 
us  on  the  verge  of  failure — and  we  mistook  you  for 
a  common  parasite.  I  confess  I  did  what  I  could  to 
induce  you  into  your  error,  though  you  did  nothing 
of  the  same  kind."  And  I  proceeded  to  explain  the 
reasons  for  my  pessimistic  conversation  :  you  can't 
draw  blood  from  a  stone,  and  no  tramp  out  West 
would  dream  of  robbing  a  couple  of  ruined  Britishers. 


H.  A.  VACHELL  167 

Now  was  his  turn  to  burst  into  a  sound  laugh. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  to  think  you  were  pulling 
my  leg  all  the  time  !  Why,  I  actually  took  you  at 
your  word,  and  that  is  precisely  the  reason  for  all  that 
followed.  I  had  more  money  by  me  than  I  could 
ever  hope  to  spend  upon  myself,  and  I  immediately 
decided  to  use  it  to  help  two  old  schoolfellows  in 
distress.  Of  course  I  couldn't  shove  the  notes  brutally 
into  your  hand,  so  I  had  to  make  use  of  stratagem  : 
that  was  the  only  reason  for  my  retiring  so  early — and 
for  my  departing  earlier  still." 

And  I  answered  sotto-voce,  as  my  brother  would 
have  bellowed  :  "  Well,  I'm " 


168  RATHER  LIKE.. 


F.    ANSTEY 

AN   OFFICERS'  GEFANGENENLAGER  IN 
GERMANY 

Scene  :  A  more  or  less  well  paved  paddock,  with  a 
large  building  at  one  side,  and  some  wooden  huts  on 
the  other ;  the  grounds  are  surrounded  with  barbed 
wire,  and  a  considerable  number  of  electric  lamps  and 
telegraph  poles  are  visible ;  the  artistic  effect  is  com- 
pleted by  a  few  pine  trees  and  various  seedy  shrubs. 

A  few  hundred  officers  of  divers  nationalities  are 
walking  about  in  small  groups. 

1st  British  Officer  (to  2nd  ditto)  :  How  long  did  you  say 
you'd  been  in  this  damned  place  ? 

2nd  B.O.  :    Two  years  to-morrow. 

ist  B.O.  :  By  Jove  !  You  don't  expect  me  to  remain 
as  long  as  that,  do  you  ? 

2nd  B.O.  :  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  afraid  I  don't  expect 
you  to  do  anything  at  all.  But  I've  already  lost 
two  fivers  betting  on  the  length  of  the  war,  and 
have  completely  given  up  speculating  on  the 
question. 

ist  B.O.  :  Anyway,  what  do  you  do  here  ? 


F.  ANSTEY  169 

2nd  B.O.  :  Anything  you  jolly  well  please.  Splendid 
opportunity  for  learning  foreign  languages,  bracing 
air,  fine  climate,  wholesome  food,  and  all  that,  you 
know. 

ist  B.O.  :  Foreign  languages  !  Phew  !  I  don't  mind 
doing  a  little  French,  but  I'm  afraid  Russian's 
something  beyond  my  line.  Have  you  started  ? 

2nd  B.O.  :  Sorry  to  say  I  have — and  a  more  murder- 
ous thing  in  the  way  of  jawing  it's  hard  to  con- 
ceive ;  beats  German  hollow  ;  full  of  declensions 
and  things,  you  know ;  but  it's  useful  to  pass 
away  the  time. 

ist  Russian  Officer  :   Kak  vuee  poshivietie  ? 

2nd  B.O.  :  Harasho,  spaceebo  .  .  .  Now  look  here, 
Petroff,  you've  got  to  speak  English  just  now  : 
here's  my  friend  Brown,  who  doesn't  know  a 
word  of  Russian,  but  who's  going  to  learn. 

ist  B.O.  :  Here,  half  a  second,  old  fellow.  I  never 
said  I  intended  to  :  I'm  sure  I'm  quite  incapable 
of  ... 

ist  R.O.  :  Oh  !  Ze  Russian  is  not  difficult,  ze  English 
is  very  difficulter. 

2nd  B.O.  :  No,  not  "  difficulter"—"  more  difficult," 
you  know. 

ist  R.O.  :  Yes  :  to  us  always  hard  know  when  say 
one  word  or  ze  ozer.  But  I  hope  before  ze  end  of 
ze  war,  know  more  of  ze  English. 

ist  B.O.  :  Of  course.  I'm  sure  I'll  be  jolly  glad  to 
know  as  much  Russian  as  you  know  of  our 
language. 

ist  R.O.  :  Eet  is  easy  ;  ze  English  pronounce  is  terr- 
'ble  ;  ze  Russian  is  much  lighter. 

2nd  B.O.  :  I  daresay — but  what  about  your  verbs — 
and  your  declensions,  especially  your  bloody 
numbers,  eh  ? 


170  RATHER  LIKE.... 

ist  R.O.  :   Eet  ees  necessary  learn  them,  zat  ees  all. 

Zere  is  ...  rulers  .  .  . 
2nd  B.O.  :    Not  "  rulers  " — "  rules." 
ist  R.O.  :    Yes,  rules.      Een  English   zere  is  only  ze 

exceptions. 
ist  B.O.  :  At  any  rate,  when  I  left  England,  I  was  under 

the  impression  that  I  was  to  fight — and  not  against 

grammatical  rules. 
ist  French  Officer  (to  second  ditto) :  Tiens,voila  Jones: 

$a  doit  etre  1'heure  de  ma  lec.on. 
2nd  P.O. :    Tu  trouves  9a  chic,  de  faire  de  1'anglais 

a  outrance  ? 
ist  P.O. :   Mon  vieux,  c'est  toujours  9a  de  pris  sur  la 

captivite  .  .  .  D'ailleurs,   toi,   tu    fais    bien    du 

russe — alors  .  .  . 
Ist  P.O.  (to  2nd  B.O.) :   Eet  ees  ze  hour  of  ze  lesson, 

ees  eet  not  ? 
2nd  B.O. :   Right  you  are,  old  boy.     Let's  go  to  the 

dining-room  :   we'll  be  a  little  warmer  in  there. 

They  move  off  together,  while  the  2nd  P.O.  does 

the  same  with  the  R.O. 

For  a  few  moments  words  like  : 
Yes — Mais  non — Harasho — Da — Not  at  all — C'est  c.a 

etc.,  are  heard ;    upon  which  a  group  of  B.O.'s 

with  tennis  rackets  come  upon  the  scene}, 
yd  B.O. :  I  think  it's  our  turn  now  ;  the  other  fellows 

have  had  their  go  at  the  courts. 
4th  B.O. :  Besides,  we've  got  to  hurry  up  if  we  want 

to  play  at  all.     I  heard  from  a  German  soldier 

that  the  tennis  is  going  to  be  suppressed. 
Chorus  of  protesting  B.O.'s  :    What  ?   —   Damn  these 

Bodies! — Impossible! — Why? — How  ? — When  ? — 

Beastly  swine,  I  call  'em,  etc. 
3rd  P.O.  (to  a  young  B.O.  who  is  the  Hon.  Sec.  of 

Dramatic  Society)  :   Well,  when  is  your  next  per- 
formance coming  off  ? 


F.  ANSTEY  171 

The  Hon.  Sec. :  I'm  afraid  there  won't  be  any  next 
performance  at  all.  The  Kommandantur  is  going 
to  suppress  them. 

yd  P.O. :   What's  the  matter  with  them  ? 

The  H.S.  :  I'm  sure  /  don't  know.  Probably  "  re- 
prisals "  of  some  sort.  You  know  these  fellows 
are  always  up  to  some  trick  or  other.  They  can 
never  leave  a  chap  in  peace.  One  day  they  allow 
a  thing,  and  as  soon  as  the  expenses  have  been 
run  into,  they  put  a  stop  to  it.  Jolly  conven- 
ient to  favour  their  beastly  trade ! 

3rd  P.O.  :  Jolly  convenient,  I  daresay — but  jolly 
swinish  too.  Not  that  it  astonishes  me  at  all, 
after  all  I've  seen. 

The  H.S. :  Yes,  I  should  think  you  know  something 
about  them  and  their  methods,  after  your  five 
months'  imprisonment  !  .  .  .  Well,  whatever 
happens,  we'll  pull  through  some  way  or  other. 

$rd  P.O. :  We'll  jolly  well  have  to  ...  By  the  way, 
do  you  happen  to  know  of  any  English  officer  who 
would  like  to  learn  French  ?  There's  a  friend  of 
mine  who'd  like  to  exchange  some  lessons  with 
an  Englishman. 

The  H.S. :  I  don't  know  of  anyone ;  but  there's  that 
new  fellow  arrived  yesterday  evening ;  he  ought 
to  be  game  ...  I  say,  though,  you're  generally 
well  informed  :  what's  the  latest  in  "  tuyaux  ?  " 

yd  P.O. :  I'm  afraid  you're  applying  to  the  wrong 
man  .  .  .  However,  I  may  tell  you — confidenti- 
ally, mind — that  the  Americans  are  seriously 
thinking  of  declaring  war  against  Germany. 

The  H.S. :  Seen  something  in  the  Koelnische  Zeitung, 
or  some  other  of  their  beastly  papers  ? 

yd  P.O.  :  Better  than  that.  I've  got  the  unsolicited 
opinion  of  a  member  of  what  a  journalist  would 
style  "  the  British  public." 


172  RATHER  LIKE.... 

TheH.S.:  How's  that  ? 

yd  P.O. :  Well,  the  other  evening  I  was  sitting  in  the 
dining-room,  doing  some  English  with  two  other 
chaps,  when  the  English  soldier  who  serves  at  the 
table — you  know,  the  one  with  the  vicious  cockney 
accent — came  up  to  me  and  calmly  proceeded  to 
develop  his  views  on  foreign  politics. 

The  H.S.  :   Just  like  his  cheek  ! 

3rd  P.O.  :  "  Well,  sir,"  he  blurted  out,  "  d'you  think 
as  the  'Nited  States  '11  soon  jine  in  this  'ere  war  ? 
Blime  if  it  wouldn't  be  a  good  stroke  for  these  'ere 
Boches — an'  I  honestly  b'lieve  as  they'll  'ave  a 
go  at  'em  jolly  soon  —  an'  serve  'em  right,  too  ! 
Don't  you  think  so,  sir  ?  " 

The  H.S.  :  Some  of  us  have  had  their  eyes  on  that  fel- 
low for  some  time,  and  I  think  he  might  be  sent 
away  to  a  soldiers'  camp  ;  he's  getting  rather  too 
cheeky  altogether — like  that  tall  Canadian  who 
got  drunk — God  knows  on  what — about  five  times 
a  week ! 

3rd  P.O. :  Oh,  if  that's  all,  there's  no  very  great  harm 
done  .  .  . 

The  H.S.  :  But  that's  not  all.  He's  getting  much 
too  swelled-headed  altogether,  and  I'm  sure  it'd 
do  him  no  end  of  good  to  clear  out  of  here. 

(Etc.) 

1st  Italian  Officer  (to  4th  F.O.)  :    Oggi  parliamo  itali- 

ano  ;    Lei  ha  parlato  francese  tutta  la  giornata 

d'ieri. 
qth  F.O.  :    Come   lei  vuol.      Insomma,   1'italiano   per 

me  non  e  piu  difficile  del  francese  per  Lei  .  .  . 

Allons-y. 
ist  7.0.  :   Non  capisco  "  Allons-y  !  " 


F.  ANSTEY  173 

4th  P.O.  :   E  domani,  io  non  capiro  "  Avanti." 
ist  1.0. :  Va  bene  ! 

(Etc.) 

(A  distant  shout — something  between  the  bark  of  an 
angry  dog  and  the  explosion  of  a  German  ^2-cm.  shell 
— is  heard,  and  discussed  in  an  international  group 
of  prisoners.) 

$th  P.O.  :    Bon  Dieu  !     Qu'est-ce  qu'ils  ont  done,  ces 

cochons-la  ? 
$th  B.O.  :  Damn  them  and  their  b y  noises  !   What 

the  dickens  was  that  ? 
yd  R.O.  :    Chorrt  vazmee  !     Chto  takoye  ?     Kakeeye 

svolochee  ! 
A  German  N.C.O. :  (approaching  the  group) :  Achtung ! 

Achtung  ! 
$th  B.O,  (to  5th  F.O.)  :    Sayt  ung  general  boche  kee 

viang  par  eecy.    Say  le  momong  de  clearay  out.  .  . 
$th  F.O.  :   Ces  bougres-la  ne  peuvent  pas  nous  f outre 

la  paix  cinq  minutes  ?     Mais  vous  avez  raison, 

Nicholson  ;    c'est  le  moment  de  se  debiner  .  .  . 

(Scene  closes  in  as  a  stout  German  General,  heralded 
by  the  barkings  of  "  Achtung  "  by  the  impassive  N.C.O. 
and  as  impassive  a  "  leutnant,"  advances  upon  the 
international  group  that  hastily  disperses.} 


174  RATHER  LIKE.... 


A  TETRALOGY    (NOT  BY   WAGNER) 

(The  following  short,  but  thrilling,  story,  is  the  work 
of  four  of  our  most  brilliant  novelists— two  of  whom,  in 
fact,  have  already  collaborated  in  longer  and  successful 
works.  By  a  stroke  of  good  luck,  we  are  now  able  to 
offer  our  readers  this  new  tale  in  four  chapters  :  each 
chapter  was  written  by  one  of  the  collaborators,  in  his 
most  characteristic  vein,  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  being 
responsible  for  the  opening  episode  in  the  Five  Towns, 
Mr.  Henry  Harland,  for  the  second  act,  in  Northern 
Italy,  Mr.  Eden  Phillpotls  for  the  middle  part,  the  scene 
of  which  is  laid  on  Dartmoor,  and  Sir  H.  Rider  Haggard 
having  written  the  sequel,  occurring,  of  course,  in  South 
Africa.  We  venture  to  hope  that  this  original  story  will 
meet  with  the  unrestricted  approval  of  our  readers.} 

PART  I. 
ARNOLD   BENNETT 

AT  that  particular   moment   when   the   relative 
positions  of  the  sun  and  of  this  little  earth 
caused  it  to  be  what  is  generally  known 
as    9    a.m.    all   along    the    meridian    that    is    kind 
enough    to    split   Bursley    from    North    to     South, 
William    Thomas    Dorner    might    have   been   found 


ARNOLD    BENNETT  175 

sitting  at  his  little  desk,  behind  the  showrooms 
of  the  Imperial  Porcelain  Emporium — which  is 
only  large  for  shop.  William  Thomas  Dorner  was 
an  accountant — which  is  merely  bluff  for  clerk — 
at  a  salary  of  a  hundred  a  year,  and  with  high  artistic 
cravings.  These,  the  Empire  Porcelain  Company, 
whose  works  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  where 
Hanbridge  begins,  allowed  him  to  satisfy  absolutely 
free  of  charge,  in  the  contemplation  of  its  own  most 
beautifully  inconvenient  premises,  and  of  its  gently 
villainous-looking  ledgers.  Of  course,  the  Emporium 
itself,  that  is  the  showrooms  where  the  British  public 
were  requested  to  enter — equally  free  of  charge — 
and  to  acquire  at  a  purely  nominal  price  some  of  the 
wares  therein  exposed,  was  of  a  quite  different  style 
of  architecture.  There,  the  floors  were  everywhere 
covered  with  the  latest  thing  in  carpets,  to  which,  of 
course,  the  British  public  did  the  usual  amount  of 
damage  at  the  rate  of  about  five  pounds  a  minute  per 
square  foot.  The  walls  were  thickly  padded  with 
high-class  purple  hangings,  the  precise  tint  of  which 
had  been  chosen  by  an  expert  in  colour-schemes — 
you  know  the  sort  of  men  :  they  earn  about  a  hundred 
guineas  every  time  they  allow  their  eyelids  to  part 
open.  Now,  as  to  the  ceiling — well,  there  probably 
was  one ;  but  it  was  so  high  up  as  to  be  practically 
invisible  to  anyone  but  the  particularly  long-sighted. 
The  little  office  behind  might  have  been  an  infinitesi- 
mal fraction  of  the  Emporium,  but  it  was  one  no 
material  damage  could  possibly  have  been  done  to 
by  any  amount  of  British  publics,  even  though  they 
might  have  been  largely  composed  of  expert  hooligans 
or  howling  children.  The  fact  is,  you  had  to  be  told  the 
office  was  there,  else  you  would  most  probably  have 
overlooked  it — "  you  "  being,  of  course,  the  privileged 


176  RATHER  LIKE.... 

person  authorised  to  enter  any  of  the  Empire  Porce- 
lain Company's  premises  other  than  the  showrooms. 
If  you  had  been  able  to  enter  the  office  at  all,  you 
would  just  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  few  bare  boards 
forming  a  cell  about  a  couple  of  inches  high,  and  a 
foot  or  two  long,  with  the  same  approximate  width  ; 
in  this  perfectly  undesirable  room  the  wandering  eye 
would  have  caught  a  desk,  and  an  imposing  collection 
of  ledgers,  apparently  weighing  a  ton  or  so  each.  A 
singularly  sharp-sighted  visitor  might  even  have 
discovered  William  Thomas  Dorner. 

William  Thomas,  who  was  generally  known  as 
Bilt  in  the  family  atmosphere  of  Sneyd,  the  model 
village  where  he  spent  his  nights  trying  to  make  both 
ends  meet,  gave  the  rest  of  his  daily  four-and-twenty 
hours  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  artistic  temperament, 
by  poring  into  the  huge  columns  of  figures  that 
majestically  filled  the  pages  of  the  Emporium's 
ledgers.  Imagine  a  dormouse  looking  at  a  mega- 
therium, and  you  will  have  an  approximate  idea  of 
William  Thomas  ministering  to  his  Company's  well- 
being.  There  was  nothing  haughty  in  his  demeanour, 
nothing  that  might  have  led  him  to  be  mistaken 
for  a  female  aristocrat  enthroned  behind  a  post-office 
counter ;  he  was  even  known,  from  time  to  time,  to 
tighten  his  lips  round  the  historic  remains  of  a  gold- 
tipped  cigarette,  while  his  face  would  be  wreathed  in 
the  faintest  ghost  of  a  smile — which,  as  a  ghost,  was 
quite  fair  a  thing  after  all.  Now,  gold-tipped  cigarettes 
of  Bilt's  most  exclusive  brand — the  maker's  name  is 
something  in  "  padopoulos  " — cost  something  above 
their  weight  in  gold,  in  our  fair  isles,  although  they 
may  very  probably  be  cheap  as  dirt  in  Athens  or 
Constantinople,  where  paper  and  tin  boxes  and  gold 
tips  and  high-class  patents  are  unknown.  And  it  will 


ARNOLD  BENNETT  177 

be  easily  understood  that  a  hundred  a  year  is,  after  all, 
but  a  poor  little  thing  to  an  accountant  whose  artistic 
cravings  put  him  in  the  way  of  Thingumbobopado- 
poulos.  There  you  have  the  nucleus  of  the  whole 
question  :  Bilt  was  ambitious.  Bilt  could  not  do  with 
the  beer  and  skittles  that  have  so  long  satisfied  the 
British  workman  ;  Bilt  wanted  that  peculiar  brand 
of  aromatised  straw  commonly  known  as  Turkish 
tobacco ;  he  craved  for  the  delicious  luxury  of  large 
towns  and  large  hotels,  commodious  chambers  with 
sofas,  five  electric  lights,  telephones,  easy-chairs,  high- 
class  wall-papers  and  carpets,  a  staff  of  frigid  valets, 
experts  in  the  art  of  closing  doors  and  waiting  for 
orders,  and  he  longed  for  the  spectacular  dinners 
in  the  same  hotels,  with  their  galaxy  of  lights,  of 
gowned  women  and  men  in  evening  dress,  of  French 
names  and  unknown  dishes  (you  know  the  sort  of 
things :  the  "  Chateaubriand  aux  pommes,"  that 
turns  out  to  be  a  bit  of  steak,  or  the  "  Tournedos," 
that  is  discovered  amazingly  like  a  piece  of  stewed 
joint).  In  fact,  Bilt  ought  to  have  been  a  belted  earl, 
or  an  American  millionaire,  or  at  least  a  musical  comedy 
star  or  a  revue  king — but  he  happened  to  be  a  clerk  at 
a  hundred  a  year,  replete  with  the  small  change  of 
cleverness,  but  singularly  lacking  its  subtler,  thousands- 
a-year  variety. 

If  Bilt  had  been  a  thrifty  man,  of  the  Benjamin 
Franklin  type,  he  would  no  doubt  have  married  an 
efficient  spinster,  and  endeavoured  to  live  as  comfort- 
ably as  possible  (which  is  not  saying  a  great  deal)  on 
his  prosaical  income  ;  he  would  simply  have  stifled 
his  higher  cravings,  while  he  was  carrying  the  baby 
or  wheeling  the  perambulator.  That  is  what  any 
reasonable,  ordinary  person  would  have  done  ;  but 
Bilt  was  not  like  you  or  me,  and  after  having  smoked 
ii 


178  RATHER  LIKE.... 

some  thousands  of  his  particular  cigarettes,  he  only 
felt  a  keener  desire  for  more. 

Now  Bilt's  artistic  money-spending  potentialities 
happened  to  be  more  or  less  known  at  Sneyd,  and  even 
at  Bursley,  where  the  average  Briton  is  content  to 
divert  himself  with  a  tankard  of  ale  from  (or  rather  at) 
the  nearest  pub,  and  the  genuinely  inconvenient 
Saturday  night  treat  at  the  Empire,  with  the  latest 
thing  in  comic  songs  and  revue  entertainments.  So 
when  it  became  known  that  the  safe  of  the  Imperial 
Porcelain  Emporium  had  been  found  empty  one 
morning  by  the  head  cashier  of  the  Company,  and  that 
William  Thomas  Dorner  had  disappeared,  all  the  wise 
heads  of  Bursley  might  have  been  seen  nodding 
synchronically,  like  so  many  metronomes  timed  to 
the  same  measure.  There  were  about  a  hundred  "  I 
told  you  so's  "  to  the  minute,  when  the  news  got  all 
about  the  town,  and  at  Hillport,  the  fashionable 
suburb,  you  could  have  seen  elegantly-clad  females 
turning  up  their  delicate  noses  at  the  so-called  "  as- 
pirations "  of  the  lower  classes.  Miss  Notchett — a 
spinster  of  uncertain  age  who  practically  never  spoke 
— was  reported  to  cry  out :  "  What  else  can  you  ex- 
pect of  our  Government  ?  "  and  her  cook,  a  stout 
matron  with  all  the  little  tricks  of  deportment  that 
are  always  developed  in  her  calling,  broke  an  extra 
china  teapot  while  exclaiming  "  Oh,  Lor  !  " 

And  yet,  however  epoch-making  the  news  of  Bilt's 
disappearance,  however  brilliantly  the  "  Signal  "  made 
use  of  this  soul-thrilling  material,  with  its  sensational 
headings — "  An  accountant  absconded — Missing  Man 
— Police  poo-poohed  "  and  so  on — the  matter  was 
soon  permitted  to  drop,  under  the  still  more  sensa- 
tional news  of  the  batting  averages  of  the  Bursley 
C.C.,  or  of  the  colour  of  the  latest  musical  comedy 


ARNOLD  BENNETT  179 

prima-donna's  natural  hair.  Nobody  seemed  to  have 
the  least  memory  of  Bilt — which  is  very  human 
after  all. 

But  that  very  little  human  thing,  the  Imperial 
Porcelain  Company,  whose  Bursley  Emporium  had 
been  done  out  of  two  thousand  pounds  "  by  some 
person  or  persons  unknown  "  (though  not  unsuspected) 
kept  its  memory  in  far  better  working  order  ;  why, 
it  had  experts  in  memory,  men  who  were  quite  willing 
to  spend  the  whole  of  their  days  remembering  (from 
ii  to  3),  at  a  purely  nominal  salary  of  about  a  shilling 
a  minute.  And  one  of  these  experts  was  entrusted 
with  the  job  of  keeping  his  mind's  eye  on  William 
Thomas  Dorner,  and  bringing  him  back  again  within 
range  of  the  Company's  purely  optical  vision. 

The  expert,  being  an  expert,  did  not  apply  to 
Scotland  Yard — did  not  even  for  a  fraction  of  a  second 
think  of  doing  so.  No,  Scotland  Yard  and  he,  in  a 
friendly  and  enthusiastic  way,  detested  each  other 
thoroughly.  That  is  why  he  decided  to  hunt  down 
Bilt  on  his  own,  and  then  only  to  ask  the  aid  of  the 
official  service  to  arrest  him  in  due  form. 

The  very  first  thing  the  expert  did  was  to  visit 
Bilt's  late  cottage  at  Sneyd,  and  to  enquire  about 
him,  casually,  and  not  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  it 
evident  to  anyone  but  a  born  fool  that  he  was  an 
expert  investigator.  In  somewhat  less  time  than  it 
would  take  a  fluent  speaker  to  say  "  Jack  Robinson," 
the  expert  unearthed  the  only  really  important  fact 
about  Bilt.  In  a  fraction  of  that,  his  mind  was  made 
up  :  a  man  with  Bilt's  artistic  temperament  would 
certainly  not  bolt  to  a  place  like  London  with  the 
money  he  had  temporarily  made  his  ;  he  must  seek  him 
somewhere  on  the  continent,  in  Paris,  say — or  better 
still  in  Northern  Italy.  And  to  Northern  Italy, 
accordingly,  he  set  off  to  seek  him. 


i8o  RATHER  LIKE.. 


PART  II. 

HENRY   HARLAND 

"  What !     In  the  large  hotel  on  the  Gran*  Canale  ?  " 

"  Si,  Signore,  the  palace  of  the  Inglese — the 
Britannia." 

"  And  you  say  he  has  been  there  over  a  fortnight  ?  " 

"  His  Excellency  is  right." 

"  But  are  you  sure  he  is  the  man  I  am  looking  for — 
my  very  dear  amico,  the  friend  whose  photo  you  are 
still  holding  ?  Look  well,  fanciulla  mia — I  don't 
want  to  make  a  mistake  !  " 

The  little,  soft,  unkempt,  pleasure-loving  Italian 
girl,  bent  those  deceptively  womanlike  blue  eyes  of 
hers  towards  the  photograph  she  held  in  her  plump, 
sunburnt,  and  dirt-smeared  hands. 

"  Of  course,"  she  softly  laughed  back,  "  of  course 
— it  is  my  friend  Guglielmo.  Does  the  signore  come 
all  the  way  from  England  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  Not  quite,  cara  mia  ;  I  was  in  Italy,  and  I  thought 
I  should  find  him  here.  So  I  came  to  Venice — and 
found  you.1' 

Your  matter-of-fact,  stolid,  British  gentleman, 
with  his  clear-cut,  dry,  soap-and-razor-like  features, 
is  slow  to  unbend  :  but  when  he  once  begins — why, 


HENRY  HARLAND  181 

then,  he  has  le  coeur  sur  la  main.  That  was  precisely 
the  case  with  Seton  Smith,  who  had  already  made 
a  fast  friend  of  little  Giuseppina,  and  managed,  in  the 
course  of  a  joyous  conversation  in  the  piazzetta,  to 
extract  a  valuable  piece  of  information — for  which  he 
had,  in  fact,  come  straight  from  Bursley,  hi  spite  of 
the  words  he  had  just  spoken. 

"  You  see,  Giuseppina  mia,"  he  added  as  an  after- 
thought, "it  is  not  always  advisable  to  blurt  out  the 
truth  into  every  one's  ears.  Your  mamma  and  babbo, 
no  doubt,  told  you  that  little  girls  should  be  seen  and 
not  heard,  and " 

"  Oh,"  cried  out  her  merry,  eager,  laughing  child- 
ish voice,  "  I  know  very  well  when  to  say  nothing  !" 
Her  fawn-coloured  eyelashes  seemed  to  confirm  this 
subtle  talent  of  hers.  "  But  I  must  tell  my  friend 
Guglielmo  that  you  have  come  to  see  him." 

"  Yes,  and  spoil  the  pleasure  of  a  surprise  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  This  time  constrainedly — "  I  had  not 
thought  of  that.  But  he  would  be  very  glad,  too,  if 
I  told  him  your  Excellency  is  here  .  .  .  Perhaps  ? 

The  eager  eyes  hovered  for  an  instant  on  the  bril- 
liant flower  of  hope  she  had  suddenly  made  to  blossom 
out  for  herself — dazzlingly  blue  they  were,  those  eyes 
of  a  tiny  little  Venetian  maid. 

"  There  never  were  such  eyes,"  thought  Seton 
Smith.  "  There  never  was  such  a  good  thing  as  a 
surprise,"  he  said  aloud. 

"  Well,  then,"  admitted  Giuseppina,  "  I  want  to 
take  a  share  in  it." 

"  Of  course,  bambina  mia.  That's  just  why  I  am 
so  glad  I  found  you.  Tis  easy  to  call  on  a  friend  at 
a  large  hotel — anyone  can  do  that ;  the  merest  news- 
paper reporter  excels  in  the  art " 


182  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  I  hate  newspapers,"  put  in  the  girl,  a  small, 
dignified  and  naturally  charming  pout  coming  across 
her  rosy  lips,  "  they  always  tell  you  what  you  don't 
want  to  know,  and  leave  out  all  the  good  things.  My 
friend  Guglielmo  hates  them,  too." 

"  No  doubt,  my  child,"  answered  the  Englishman. 
"  But,  as  we  were  saying,  you  and  I  must  prepare  a 
grand  surprise  for  our  friend." 

"  Yes,"  eagerly  rejoined  the  blue-eyed  slip  of 
femininity.  "  If  you  like,  I  shall  go  and  meet  him  at 
the  Lido — I  know  he  often  goes  across  to  look  at  the 
lagoon — and,  when  we  come  back,  you  can  suddenly 
appear,  like  a  prince  in  a  fairy-tale — or  like  little 
Giacomo,  when  we  played  at  pirates  on  a  desert 
island !  Yes,  that  would  be  fine,  Ecco  !" 

"  Tis  a  very  fine  notion  you've  got  into  your 
pretty  little  head,"  answered  Seton  Smith.  "  I,  for 
one,  shall  appreciate  the  surprise  at  its  full  worth — 
and  your  friend  Guglielmo  will  never  forget  it  in  all  his 
life  .  .  .  You  are  a  little  witch,  Giuseppina.  But 
tell  me  :  how  did  you  get  to  know  Guglielmo  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  easy,"  laughed  the  diminutive 
goddess.  "  I  was  playing  behind  the  Merceria,  with 
Giacomo,  when  he  came  along,  as  though  he  were 
looking  for  a  gondola.  I  knew  at  once  that  he  was 
an  Inglese,  and  I  took  him  to  a  fine  gondolier  I 
know.  .  .  ." 

"  You  seem  to  know  everybody,  fanciulla  mia !  " 

"  This  gondolier  is  Giacomo' s  father.  .  .  .  Well, 
after  that,  I  saw  him  every  day,  and  we  went  for  walks 
together.  That  is  why  I  knew  exactly  where  he  likes 
to  go  and  where  to  meet  him.  I  am  quite  sure  he  has 
gone  to  the  Stabilimento  this  morning,  and  will  return 
to  the  palace  of  the  Inglese  at  sixteen  o'clock.  .  .  . 
You  see,  my  friend  Guglielmo  is  very  rich,"  she  added 
in  a  shy  and  demure  tone  of  youthful  pride. 


HENRY  HARLAND  183 

"  Yes,"  replied  Smith,  with  the  faintest  touch  of 
grimness,  "he  is  very  rich.  .  .  .  And  where  do  you 
propose  me  to  fall  upon  him,  and  give  him  the  best 
surprise  he  has  ever  had  ?  " 

"  In  the  Giardino,  behind  San  Servolo,"  promptly 
answered  the  sorceress,  like  one  well  accustomed  to 
play  such  pranks.  "  We  always  get  out  of  the  Gondola 
at  San  Servolo,  and  walk  to  San  Giorgio  through  the 
public  Gardens.  There  is  a  little  path  leading  to  a 
fountain  :  ecco,  that  is  the  place.  Nobody  is  there  as 
a  rule,  and  it  is  just  the  proper  thing  to  play  at 
surprises." 

"  Va  bene,  little  witch,"  replied  Seton  Smith. 
"  I  shall  hide  behind  the  orleander,  in  the  shade  the 
sun  is  kind  enough  to  spread  and  slant  at  that  hour, 
and  when  I  see  you  coming  along,  I  shall  jump  out 
like.  .  .  .  like  little  Giacomo,  and  shout  Boo-oo-oo ! 
.  .  .  And  then  you'll  laugh  !  .  .  Qui  vivra  verra !" 

"Oh,  how  nice  everything  will  be  !  "  exclaimed 
the  little  girl,  clapping  her  sunburnt  and  dirty  hands. 
"  We  shall  be  there  between  half  past  sixteen  and  a 
quarter  to  seventeen.  It  always  takes  the  same  time 
— I  know!  How  pleased  my  friend  Guglielmo  will 
be!" 

"  That's  right,"  chuckled  the  Englishman.  "  Well, 
I  must  be  off  now,  but  I  won't  forget  the  appointment 
.  .  .  And  don't  you  forget  to  buy  some  sweets,"  he 
added,  slipping  a  sovereign  into  her  dirty  palms. 

"  Oh  !  "  Her  girlish  azure  eyes  lit  up  wonder- 
ingly  in  a  bewildering,  charming,  roguish — utterly 
irresponsible  and  not-to-be  resisted — a  rippling,  girlish 
divine  smile,  that  was  a  reflection  of  the  sky  above 
and  of  the  silvery  waves  below — a  smile  that  cut  off 
the  answer  ready  on  her  lips,  and  expressed  far  more 
than  any  mere  words  could  do. 


184  RATHER  LIKE.... 

And  the  Englishman,  laughing  softly,  departed, 
nodding  to  his  odd  and  mischievous  accomplice. 

On  that  same  afternoon,  in  the  pleasant  Public 
Gardens  filled  with  the  subtle  odours  of  orange-trees 
and  tamarin,  among  the  playful  shadows  of  ilexes 
and  orleanders,  one  might  have  heard  the  voices  of 
merry,  quaint,  old-fashioned  southern  children,  busily 
engaged  in  games  of  quaint  descriptions,  while  passers- 
by  looked  gaily  on  for  a  moment,  and  more  often  than 
not  joined  in  the  hearty  exclamations  that  filled  the 
air.  Your  southern  person,  with  his  blood  rushing 
readily  to  all  his  limbs,  is  apt  to  give  vent  to  his 
private  feelings  in  a  manner  no  self-respecting  English 
gentleman  would  approve  of — and  yet  none  the  less 
charming  for  that. 

Just  beside  a  little,  sandy,  shadowy,  smiling  path, 
that  wound  itself  right  up  to  the  spluttering,  sparkling, 
laughing  fountain,  behind  a  gaunt  old  oleander,  the 
king  of  oleanders,  stood  Seton  Smith,  well  hidden 
among  the  ever-changing  shadows,  his  anxious  gaze 
darting  right  or  left  from  time  to  time,  in  expectation 
of  his  new-found  friend. 

He  espied  her  from  afar,  hand  in  hand  with  a  tall 
young  man,  who  appeared  strangely  out  of  place  in 
this  paradise  of  a  Venetian  garden — a  tall  fellow,  who 
appeared  to  answer  curtly  the  evidently  numerous 
questions  with  which  his  youthful  companion  inex- 
haustingly  plied  him ;  not  an  Italian,  one  could  see 
at  first  glance,  despite  the  bronze  hue  beginning  to 
smother  his  northern  pallor — and  smoking  a  gold- 
tipped  cigarette  whose  silver-grey  curling  wreaths 
wandered  lazily  up  into  the  clear  blue  sky. 

Giuseppina  and  her  friend,  whom  Seton  Smith 
(egregious  circumstance)  had  no  difficulty  in  recog- 
nising as  the  original  of  the  photograph  he  had  showed 


HENRY  HARLAND  185 

the  little  girl  that  very  morning,  came  along  the  little 
path,  chattering  gaily  (at  least  she  was  chattering 
gaily),  with  the  air  of  promeneurs  well  used  to  their 
surroundings  ;  yet  one  could  see  an  air  of  unusual 
excitement  and  animation  in  the  young,  blue,  usually 
careless  and  absurdly  beautiful  little  eyes.  She  went 
on  talking  wildly,  right  up  to  the  king  of  oleanders  she 
had  mentioned  as  a  trysting  place  to  her  latest  friend, 
the  other  rich  Inglese.  As  they  came  opposite  the 
tree,  Seton  Smith's  lithe  form  shot  out  from  behind 
the  heavy  shadows,  and  he  laid  his  firm  and  sinewy 
hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"I'm  afraid  the  game's  up,  Mr.  William  Thomas 
Dorner,"  he  said  in  a  peculiarly  quiet  voice.  "  No, 
don't  move,  I've  got  you  covered  with  my  revolver  .  .  . 
That's  better.  You  see,  my  friend  Giuseppina  quite 
inadvertently  put  me  on  to  your  tracks,  and  being  an 
ileve  de  Sherlock  Holmes,  I  promised  her  to  give  you  a 
surprise — the  surprise  of  your  life.  ...  I  think  I 
have  been  successful  ?  " 

"  Damn  you  !  "  angrily  let  out  the  wretched  man. 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  replied  Seton  Smith.  "  'Tis 
no  business  of  yours,  what  becomes  of  me  in  post- 
terrestrial  times.  .  .  .  Come,  now,  will  you  follow  me 
quietly,  or  do  you  want  me  to  handcuff  you  ?  You'd 
better  avoid  a  row — 'twill  do  you  no  good." 

"  All  right,"  said  Dorner  sullenly,  with  a  droop  of 
his  heavy,  tired,  restless  eyelids,  "  I'll  follow  you." 

"  You  see,  bambina  mia,"  added  Seton  Smith, 
turning  to  the  bewildered  and  completely  startled 
little  Italian  girl,  "  your  friend  Guglielmo  has  lately 
left  his  English  home,  carrying  with  him  fifty  thousand 
lire  that  belong  to  his  employers.  Now  he  is  coming 
back  with  me  to  get  his  deserts.  .  .  .  And  you  had 
better  run  along  and  play  with  little  Giacomo." 


186  RATHER  LIKE.. 


PART  III. 
EDEN   PHILLPOTTS 

Between  the  village  of  Moretonbridge  and  the 
hamlet  of  Posthampstead,  there  runs  a  track  that 
looks  straight  at  the  eastern  arm  of  Dart  opposite 
Pittimerry  Hill.  The  road  flies  over  the  impressive 
shoulder  of  Heddymore  Tor,  jumps  clean  into  a  pit 
that  yawns  on  one  side  of  the  hill,  bounds  back  round 
its  base,  and  finally  jumps  across  Dart  over  an 
ancient  bridge  about  half  a  mile  before  touching 
Posthampstead. 

Now,  just  opposite  the  silent  mass  of  Heddymore 
Tor,  which  shuts  out  the  sun  soon  after  noon  all  along 
the  eastern  slope  of  the  land,  there  shall  be  seen  a  turf 
hut,  such  as  shepherds  employ  at  eaning  time.  The 
walls  of  this  dwelling  are  old  and  weather-beaten, 
and  there  shall  presently  appear  upon  them  an  ir- 
regular frieze  of  holes  that  gape  and  leer,  with  their 
sightless  eyes  and  toothless  mouths.  The  roof  of 
thatch  has  crumbled  down  in  places  ;  rotted  wood- 
work will  be  seen  lying  about,  seasoned  into  the  same 
colour  as  most  of  the  lichened  walls,  where  glimmer 
wonderful  fabrics  of  cryptogamous  vegetation.  Here 
flourishes  "  reindeer-moss,"  that  works  its  delicate 


EDEN  PHILLPOTTS  187 

patterns  into  the  peering  eyeless  sockets  through 
which  the  heathy  wind  loves  to  come  whistling  along  ; 
here  dwells  the  cladonia,  its  flaming  gold  weaving  lace- 
work  on  the  bare  grey  of  other  lichens,  and  lighting  up 
the  green  setting  of  true  mosses  and  various  creepers. 
On  the  outlying  heath,  too,  humble  vegetations  cover 
the  granite  blocks,  in  the  dark  crannies  of  which  the 
bittern  and  the  jackdaw  build  their  nests,  while 
screech-owls  send  forth  their  ghostly  cry  into  the 
night. 

Generations  of  shepherds  have  used  this  hut,  that 
has  been  several  times  struck  down  by  lightning,  or 
otherwise  destroyed  and  built  up  again,  thanks  to 
spontaneous  subscriptions  of  kind  neighbours.  The 
smith,  at  Moretonbridge,  who  is  well-nigh  sixty  years 
old,  has  told  me,  in  his  nervous  Anglo-Saxon,  which 
still  rings  in  my  ears,  how  he  remembers  old  Ezekiel, 
the  last  one  to  inhabit  the  tumble-down  place — which 
was  already  crumbling  in  his  own  boyhood.  Neglect 
had  now  added  itself  to  decay,  and  nobody  thought 
of  living  in  such  a  mouldy  place.  In  spite  of  every- 
thing, however,  the  hut,  though  empty,  is  not  so 
deserted  as  one  might  think  :  the  place  still  has  a 
hearth  of  sorts,  with  its  heap  of  grey  ashes,  while  a 
pile  of  sundry  bottles  and  empty  boxes  look  askance 
at  him  who  would  be  bold  enough  to  enter  by  day. 

The  ruined  hut  is  haunted,  moreover,  and  you  may 
find  those  who  still  believe  in  the  ghosts  that  assemble 
there  before  departing  on  their  nightly  errand  to 
Barrow  Farm.  Not  a  woodman  or  a  shepherd  would 
be  seen  nigh  the  place  when  the  moon  is  out,  and 
although  none  will  positively  swear  to  have  seen  an 
apparition,  there  are  none  that  disbelieve  in  them, 
save  perhaps  the  younger  generation  that  has  grown 
too  matter-of-fact  to  fancy  and  too  sceptical  to  deny. 


i88  RATHER  LIKE.... 

It  is  natural  that  a  tumble-down  and  desolate 
place  like  Heddymore  Hut  should  harbour  the  non- 
descript flotsam  that  happen  to  pass  across  such  a  wild 
tract  of  land  as  Dartmoor  ;  more  than  one  fugitive 
has  sought  under  its  crumbling  roof  a  night's  shelter 
against  God's  wrath,  and  many  are  those  who  have 
halted  'mid  its  battered  walks  long  enough  to  catch 
their  second  breath. 

It  was  not  particularly  amazing,  therefore,  that 
little  Mary  Oldhouse  should  find  the  old  hut  occupied 
when  she  peeped  into  it  one  warm  evening  in  May, 
when  the  ling  was  already  flowering  among  the  furze, 
and  the  sphagnum  bog  gave  out  its  pregnant  fragrance. 
Mary  was  the  daughter  of  John  Oldhouse,  the  owner 
of  Barrow  Farm,  and  resembled  her  father  as  little  as  it 
is  given  to  nature  to  manage.  The  former,  a  sturdy, 
six-foot  British  countryman,  seemed  to  embody 
everything  that  England  stands  for :  stern-featured 
and  ruddy-complexioned,  he  was  the  picture  of  bodily 
vigour  and  tenacious  hardihood.  His  daughter  was  a 
frail  little  maid,  whose  butterfly  existence  spent  itself 
on  Dartmoor,  fluttering  about  from  vale  to  Tor,  from 
farm  to  hamlet,  up  along  the  hundred  slopes,  and 
down  the  slanting  hills.  She  had  often  paid  flying 
visits  to  the  old  shepherd's  hut,  and  was  a  firm  believer 
in  the  ghosts  that  were  said  to  haunt  it.  Moreover,  she 
was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  them,  being  universally 
petted  and  loved  by  every  man.  woman,  and  beast 
upon  the  moor.  It  was  true  she  had  never  met 
anyone  at  all  in  her  ramblings  to  the  tumble-down 
hut.  So,  to-night,  when  she  found  herself  looking 
upon  a  gaunt  and  mud-besmeared  human  form,  sitting 
on  a  pile  of  mouldy  wood,  she  expressed  some  girlish 
astonishment,  but  no  genuine  fear. 

"  Well !  "  she  exclaimed  at  length,  as  the  unknown 


EDEN  PHILLPOTTS  189 

figure  stared  at  her  unsympathetically,  "  I  knawed  as 
we'm  gotten  ghosts  up  about.  Faither  ban't  right 
when  'e  doan't  b'lieve  they'm  on  Dartymoor.  An' 
'ere  be  one,  butivul,  an'  all,  biding  anigh  me.  Us 
knawed  as  they'm  gert  witty,*  wise  an'  good." 

"  Stop  your  fool's  talk,  you  silly  girl  !  "  angrily 
retorted  the  mysterious  figure.  "  You'd  better  help  me 
to  light  a  fire  in  this  beastly  crumbling  place  !  " 

"  If  you'm  angry  wi'  me,  'twon't  help  'e  much  wi' 
a  fire,"  Mary  laughed  back.  "  Why,  I  never  did  hear 
tell  on  a  ghost  as  axed  for  warmth,  seein'  as  it  ought 
to  have  catched  enough  where  it  comes  from.  But  it 
ban't  like  a  good  darter  to  refuse  when  she  be  bidden. 
Besides,  I  be  gert  wi'  kitchen  fires  to  home,  an'  e' 
shall  see  jest  what  us  can  be  catched  doin'." 

The  maid  came  forward,  genuinely  amused  at  so 
strange  a  request  from  what  she  believed  to  be  nothing 
but  a  fleshless  phantom.  In  doing  so,  however,  her 
dainty  little  foot  came  in  contact  with  a  large  hob- 
nailed boot,  and  she  uttered  a  sharp  cry  of  surprise  in 
which  for  the  first  time  fear  played  a  part. 

"  Oh  !  So  'e  ban't  a  real  ghost,  maister  !  An' 
what  may  'e  be  doin'  in  the  shepherd's  hut  this  time 
o'  night  ?  " 

"  Who  told  you  I  was  a  ghost  ?  "  answered  the 
stranger,  less  unkindly  than  he  had  spoken  before. 
"  Whatever  I  may  be,  you  made  a  very  acceptable 
proposal  just  now  :  I'm  sure  you  must  be  a  much 
better  hand  at  lighting  a  fire  than  I  can  ever  hope  to 
be,  and  as  I'm  in  sorrowful  need  of  a  blaze,  it  would  be 
a  real  kindness  on  your  part  to  get  one  up  for 
me." 

"  Ess  fay,"  iaid  the  girl.     "  But  'e  must  first  tell 

*  Witty— wise. 


RATHER  LIKE.... 

me  who  'e  be.  There's  not  many  as  would  bide  in  this 
hut  at  this  hour  o'  day,  an'  if  "e  doan't  answer  me  first, 
'tis  not  for  me  to  light  the  fires  o'  the  likes  of  'e.  .  .  . 
You'm  not  from  Dartymoor,  neither  :  'e  doan't  talk 
like  us." 

"  True,  my  dear,"  retorted  the  unknown.  "  I 
happen  to  be  from  a  little  place  called  Sneyd,  a  good 
long  way  from  here,  though  you've  probably  heard  of 
it :  it's  quite  near  Bursley — and  that's  where  they 
make  the  crockery." 

"  That  be  no  answer.  .  .  .  An'  what  might  your 
name  be  ?  Us  knows  the  names  of  all  people  on 
Dartymoor,  an'  if  'e  wants  me  to  light  your  fire,  'e  must 
tell  me  who  'e  be  an'  why  'e  be  here  too." 

"  Well,  then,  little  Miss  Inquisitive,"  laughingly 
replied  the  man,  "  my  name  is  Dorner,  and  I'm  out 
here.  .  .  er  .  .  .  for  my  health.  And  now,"  he  added 
rather  hastily,  "  I  believe  I've  earned  the  right  to 
your  own  name  and  to  your  help." 

"  Ess,"  said  Mary  Oldhouse,  telling  him  her  name 
in  her  fresh,  girlish  voice,  while  she  set  to  work  with 
scraps  of  wood  and  bits  of  straw  which  her  dainty 
fingers,  aided  by  a  match  Dorner  handed  her  silently, 
soon  kindled  into  a  blaze.  He  put  his  hands  greedily 
to  the  generous  warmth  that  sprang  up  from  the  hearth, 
and  she  gazed  at  him  for  some  moments  without  a 
word.  Still  keeping  near  the  fire,  he  began  looking 
at  her  in  his  turn,  while  the  faintest  blush  sprang  upon 
her  dimpled  cheeks.  Then  he  began  speaking  in  a  low, 
musical  voice,  the  like  of  which  she  had  never  heard 
before,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  the  coarser  West- 
Anglian  tongue  spoken  by  the  farmers  and  the  peasants 
who  inhabit  Dartmoor. 

"  I  must  acknowledge  your  very  welcome 
services,  little  Mary  ;  and  at  the  same  time  you  force 


EDEN  PHILLPOTTS  191 

me  to  declare  there  are  some  remarkably  pretty  little 
maids  in  these  parts.  Why,  many  an  Italian  beauty 
would  envy  you  your  grey  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks,  and 
I  am  sure  Monna  Lisa's  smile  would  faint  before  your 
own  !  " 

"  I  be  sure  as  I  doan't  knaw  anything  of  Monna 
Leeza,"  retorted  the  girl,  "but  there  be  a  many  men  as 
'd  not  speak  to  me  like  'e.  An'  if  faither  was  anigh, 
an'  catched  'e  to  ut,  maybe  he'd  not  like  it  either. 
Us  doan't  knaw  to  say  gert  butivul  things  ;  an'  why 
for  should  us  ?  "  Yet  she  did  not  look  angry,  in  spite 
of  the  rebuke.  And  presently  she  went  on  :  "  If  'e 
promise  not  to  say  any  more  o'  they  silly  things  about 
my  eyes  or  my  cheeks,  I'd  not  mind  taking  of  'e  back 
to  Barrow  Farm,  where  'e  could  get  a  decent  meal  an' 
a  better  bed  than  what  'e'll  ever  get  in  the  old  shep- 
herd's hut.  Faither  ban't  the  man  to  refuse  a  fellow 
creetur  a  shelter  an'  a  morsel  to  eat." 

"  My  dear,"  replied  the  man,  "  I  am  afraid  I  can 
make  no  call  on  your  hospitality  just  at  present.  But 
if  you  could  tell  me  the  shortest  cut  to  Plymouth,  I'd 
be  truly  grateful.  The  fact  is,  I  have  some  rather 
important  business  to  transact,  and  ...  er  ...  I 
must  not  remain  about  here  longer  than  is  absolutely 
necessary." 

At  the  same  time  he  drew  a  box  of  cigarettes  from 
his  shabby  coat,  and  proceeded  to  light  one  of  them  at 
the  already  waning  fire.  Mary  noticed  the  light  golden 
colour  of  the  tobacco,  and  also  the  gold  ring  that 
tipped  the  white  paper  where  he  drew  it  to  his  lips. 
Through  the  gaping  coat  she  also  caught  sight  of  a 
hideous-looking  design,  that  had  grown  familiar  to  her 
accustomed  eyes,  though  she  had  never  seen  the  like 
on  any  living  man  before.  She  uttered  a  sharp 
exclamation  of  dismay. 


I92  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  'E  ban't  one  o'  they  prison  convicts  ?  "  she  cried. 
"  Gaffer  Prote  often  told  me  as  they'm  escaping  from 
Princetown  gaol,  but  I'd  never  'a  thought  as  I'd  see 
un,  an'  take  'im  for  a  ghost — an'  all  not  a  mile  up 
along  o'  the  old  farm." 

"  Look  here,  Mary,"  the  stranger  said,  more 
seriously  than  he  had  ever  spoken  before.  "  You've 
found  out  my  secret — but  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  harm 
me  !  Surely  those  rosy  lips  of  yours  were  not  made 
to  raise  the  hue  and  cry  against  an  innocent  man  who 
has  managed  to  escape  hard  and  unjust  gaolers ! 
Surely,  your  fairy  eyes  would  not  like  to  see  me  caged 
within  those  terrible  prison  walls  !  Come,  I  am  at 
your  mercy  :  you  will  not  kill  my  new-born  hope  !  " 

She  appeared  truly  moved  by  his  words,  and 
reflected  a  long  time  before  she  answered.  Then  her 
reply  came  in  faltering  tones,  giving  voice  to  the 
thoughts  that  had  kept  her  silent. 

"  Hold  hard :  this  axes  a  lot  of  thinking  about. 
You'm  an  escaped  prisoner,  and  if  I  don't  tell  on  'e, 
I  can  never  look  up  to  faither's  eyes  no  more — ess  fay 
...  All  the  same,  if  I  hadn't  come  over  to  the  hut 
to-night,  but  stayed  quietly  at  home,  I  shouldn't  have 
seen  'e,  and  nobody  else  would  have  catched  'e  to-night. 
But  why  for  be  'e  a  convict,  dressed  up  like  a  mommet* 
in  a  field  ?  " 

"  My  dear,"  gently  replied  the  escaped  convict 
"  once  the  law  gets  hold  of  you,  it's  a  hard  thing  to 
justify  one's  conduct.  However,  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  I  was  in  the  clutches  of  a  big  company  that  did  its 
best  to  ruin  me — yes,  and  had  succeeded  too,  if  Heaven 
had  not  been  kind  at  last  by  putting  you  across  my 
path  !  .  .  .  Mary,  little  Mary,  you  are  all  the  world  to 

*  Mommet — scarecrow. 


EDEN   PHILLPOTTS  193 

me.  I  love  you,  Mary,  I  love  you  with  all  the  strength 
of  my  battered  body,  with  all  the  yearning  of  my  un- 
chainable  soul ! 

Though  I  had  never  heard  thy  name, 

I  know  thee  from  afar, 
And  thou  shalt  guide  to  life  and  fame, 

Mine  own,  my  shining  star  !  " 

Now  he  was  on  his  knees  before  the  girl,  for  he  saw 
only  the  light  of  kindness  in  her  tender  eyes.  Ten 
minutes  ago,  she  little  knew  what  strange  adventure 
would  befall  her  :  instead  of  the  ghastly  apparitions 
that  failed  of  any  audience,  she  was  now  confronted 
with  a  man,  a  cultured  man,  whose  polished  speech 
was  unlike  any  of  those  she  had  met  before,  whose 
voice  was  pleading  for  his  liberty  and  life,  while  the 
floating  breeze  outside  brought  all  the  fragrance  of 
the  moor  to  her  childish  senses,  awakening  for  the 
first  time  to  the  talk  of  love. 

"  Why,  you  be  talking  like  they  do  in  books  !  "  she 
exclaimed.  But  she  did  not  push  him  away  from  her, 
and  her  voice  was  more  than  uncommon  tearful, 
proving  to  demonstration  that  the  stranger,  whatever 
his  wrongs,  had  found  his  way  to  her  heart. 

He  stroked  her  golden  curls,  and  took  her  in  his 
arms.  Outside,  night  had  already  fallen,  wrapping 
up  the  gaunt  tors  in  its  huge  mantle  of  murky  darkness. 
Close  by,  the  lapping,  rippling  Dart  loosened  the  pinch 
at  Mary  Oldhouse's  heart :  she  reflected  with  surprise 
that  she  was  giving  up  all  her  past  life  of  wandering 
and  roaming,  all  Dartmoor's  gentle  summer  fragrance 
and  winter  harshness,  to  this  man,  who  had  been  but  a 
stranger  to  her  a  few  minutes  ago,  but  who  was  now 
dearer  to  her  than  all  her  dreams  of  golden  days. 

12 


194  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Hand  in  hand,  they  left  the  hut :  on  the  desolate 
Moor,  a  granite  cross  seemed  to  indicate  the  way  to 
safety,  as  it  had,  of  old,  pointed  out  the  road  to  many 
an  abbot  walking  from  monastery  to  monastery.  They 
went  very  slowly  at  first,  for  she  did  not  wish  to  reach 
her  father's  farm  till  every  one  was  fast  asleep.  No- 
body would  miss  her  :  she  had  often  spent  the  night 
at  some  distant  neighbours'.  Her  mind  was  fully 
made  up,  and  nothing  could  make  her  waver  in  her 
purpose. 

That  same  night,  the  fugitives,  after  having  passed 
the  new  hostelry  at  Two  Bridges,  and  the  old  Saracen's 
Head,  reached  the  landing-place  at  Davenport  Hard, 
where  Dorner  easily  found  a  small  sailing  tramp  on 
which  they  both  embarked,  well  out  of  the  clutches 
of  the  law,  and  ready  to  face  the  lapping  waves  and 
unknown  coasts  for  which  she  was  bound! 


H.   RIDER  HAGGARD  195 


PART  IV. 
SIR   H.   RIDER  HAGGARD 

It  will  be  remembered  by  all  Captain  John  Good's 
friends  (and  they  are  legions)  that  he  was  no  mean 
traveller,  hunter,  and  explorer  ;  indeed,  he  undertook 
several  expeditions  into  the  wilds  of  Southern  Africa, 
and  accompanied  his  particular  friend,  Sir  Henry 
Curtis,  on  the  quest  that  eventually  revealed  both  his 
long-lost  brother  and  King  Solomon's  carefully  hidden 
treasure.  It  will  therefore  astonish  no  one  that  his 
son  Tom  should  have  inherited  a  similar  taste  for 
adventures  in  unknown  countries,  though  this  is  a 
thing  that  might  well  be  disputed.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
young  Tom  Good  was  born  and  bred  a  big  game  hunter 
and  an  ardent  traveller.  He  especially  haunted  the 
precincts  his  father  had  explored  with  old  Alan 
Ouatermain,  and,  in  fact,  made  several  trips  out  to 
Africa,  both  before  and  since  the  war  ;  between  these 
roving  travels,  which  would  last  for  any  period  of  time, 
between  a  few  months  and  several  years,  he  would  come 
back  to  his  old  English  home,  where  I  often  enjoyed 
his  genial  hospitality.  It  was  during  one  of  my 
visits  to  him  that  I  happened  to  mention  the  name 
of  one  William  Dorner,  a  fraudulent  clerk,  who  had 


196  RATHER  LIKE.... 

been  skilfully  arrested  in  Venice,  after  having  ab- 
sconded with  two  thousand  pounds  belonging  to  his 
employers,  brought  back  to  England,  and  sentenced 
to  three  years'  hard  labour  ;  he  had  been  wily  enough 
to  break  prison,  and  to  escape  from  Dartmoor — to 
Africa,  it  was  presumed  ;  nothing  further  had  been 
heard  about  him.  But  the  singular  fact  about  his 
escape  was  the  simultaneous  disappearance  from 
Dartmoor  of  a  young  girl,  Mary  Oldhouse,  the  daughter 
of  a  well-to-do  farmer,  of  whom  nothing  was  known 
since  the  time  of  this  extraordinary  occurrence.  I 
had  mentioned  Dorner  quite  casually,  in  the  middle 
of  an  unremarkable  conversation,  and  was  surprised 
to  see  my  friend  start  suddenly  as  the  name  caught 
his  ear. 

"  What,  Dorner  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  "  William 
Thomas  Dorner  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  those  are  his  names,"  I  answered, 
"  and  most  ordinary  they  are,  too.  Do  you  happen 
to  know  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  actually  met  him  and  his  wife  in  South 
Africa — at  least  I  met  a  man  who  called  himself 
Rorden,  and  told  me  his  real  name  was  Dorner.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  the  story  would  interest  you  ?  Well,  here 
goes."  And  he  broke  into  the  following  narrative, 
which  I  have  tried  to  set  down  as  nearly  as  possible 
in  his  own  words  : 

"  It  was  while  I  was  out  lion-hunting  near  Miner's 
Rest  in  the  Transvaal.  Do  you  know  Miner's  Rest  ? 
Well,  you  certainly  lose  nothing  by  it ;  it's  the  ugliest, 
dustiest,  beastliest  place  ever  contaminated  by  the 
scum  of  civilisation  and  the  worst  of  barbarity.  How- 
ever, I  didn't  remain  there  very  long  :  I  only  took  time 
to  engage  a  couple  of  Kaffirs  and  an  ox-waggon,  which, 
by  the  way,  is  far  worse  in  quality  and  twice  as  dear, 


H.   RIDER  HAGGARD  197 

in  such  a  place,  than  in  any  decent  city  near  the 
coast,  though  that  is  a  saying  that  might  well  be 
disputed — especially  by  the  half -Zulu,  half -Dutchman, 
who  transacts  the  bargain.  Anyhow,  I  set  out  into  the 
interior,  towards  the  Limpopo,  with  my  little  caravan, 
hoping  to  settle  a  couple  of  lions  at  best,  and,  in  case  of 
extra  bad  luck,  to  spend  some  fairly  active  and  whole- 
some weeks,  at  any  rate. 

"  I  remember  my  father  often  telling  me  how  old 
Alan  Quatermain  used  to  feel  lonely  in  our  European 
crowds  where  he  knew  no  one,  while  the  silence  of  an 
equatorial  forest  was  good  enough  company  for  him. 
Well,  I  feel  just  the  same,  and  I  can  tell  you  the  banks 
of  the  Limpopo  are  far  better  company  than  the  empty 
snobbish  set  that  flock  to  London  or  Paris.  It  is 
impossible  for  me  to  conceive  loneliness  in  the  middle 
of  an  African  hunting  ground,  with  a  Westly-Richards 
slung  across  my  shoulder  and  an  ample  provision  of 
.507  express  bullets  in  my  cartridge  belt. 

"  The  oxen,  I  remember,  had  given  us  no  end  of 
trouble  during  that  little  trip.  There  is  nothing  more 
stupid  than  a  bullock,  and  they  are  apt  to  be  a  regular 
nuisance  when  once  they  make  up  their  minds.  Trek- 
king is  not  altogether  a  bed  of  roses,  I  can  tell  you, 
and  I've  done  my  full  share  of  it,  too.  To  begin  with, 
one  of  our  beasts  had  managed  to  eat  some  plant  or 
other  that  disagreed  with  its  constitution,  and  we 
had  been  obliged  to  put  a  bullet  through  it.  Another 
had  actually  gone  astray  during  the  night,  and  what 
we  found  left  of  it,  next  day,  proved  that  it  had  made 
a  good  supper  to  some  preying  lion  that  had  been 
cheeky  enough  to  come  near  our  camp  without  being 
spotted,  or  even  scented.  Moreover,  Jock,  the  elder 
of  my  Kaffirs,  was  not  an  eminently  reliable  fellow, 
as  I  had  ample  reasons  to  ascertain  later  on.  The 


RATHER  LIKE.... 

other,  who  responded  to  the  musical  name  of  Tim-Tim, 
was  quite  a  different  sort,  with  whom  I  have  since  gone 
through  many  adventures,  and  most  curious  some  of 
them  were. 

"  Well,  this  particular  trip  didn't  seem  to  turn  out 
peculiarly  well,  what  with  one  thing  and  another  ; 
we  lost  some  of  our  flour,  I  remember,  crossing  a  ford 
that  happened  to  be  deeper  than  we  supposed.  The 
day  after,  however,  we  found  a  pretty  little  stream, 
flowing  between  banks  green  with  maidenhair  fern, 
wild  asparagus,  and  many  other  beautiful  grasses. 
Moreover,  game  seemed  rather  plentiful  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood :  the  plains  on  the  northern  side  of  our  stream 
were  swarming  with  springbock  and  blesbuck,  and 
many  varieties  of  quazza  and  vilderbeeste.  The 
beauty  of  the  place  and  the  richness  of  its  fauna  made 
me  resolve  to  stay  there  a  few  days,  in  the  hope  that 
we  might  come  across  a  few  odd  lions,  which  are  sure 
to  be  about,  in  those  latitudes,  wherever  they  find  a 
good  hunting  ground. 

"We  established  our  skerm  (i)  on  the  banks  of  the 
stream,  and  very  pleasant  it  was,  what  with  the 
bathing  in  the  deep  current,  the  fresh  and  bracing 
air,  full  of  the  fragrance  of  sugar  bushes  and  wild 
mimosa,  and  the  promise  of  good  sport  in  the  very  near 
future.  I  told  you  just  now  I  never  felt  lonely  in  an 
African  forest  ;  and  so  it  happened  that  I  was  quietly 
sitting  on  a  large  stone  some  distance  away  from  my 
camp,  spending  a  very  pleasant  evening  all  by  myself, 
with  no  other  companion  than  my  pipe.  The  moon 
was  shining  like  a  silver  disc,  and  it  was  glorious  to  see 
its  lithe  rays  mingle  light  and  shadows  in  a  way  no 
painter  could  ever  approach.  Indeed,  it  would  require 
somebody  with  more  words  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue 

(i)    Rough  enclosure. 


H.   RIDER  HAGGARD  199 

than  I  shall  ever  have,  to  describe  such  a  scene  as  it 
deserves ;  so  I  will  not  even  attempt  to  do  so. 

"Tim-Tim  was  cooking  some  impala-steaks  from  a 
buck  I  had  shot  in  the  afternoon — a  remarkable  case,  I 
remember,  of  a  '570  express  bullet  passing  clean  through 
the  heart — and  presently  a  long,  low  moaning  sound 
was  suddenly  heard  through  the  growth  of  many- 
coloured  vegetation — and  most  remarkable  it  was  in 
the  silence  of  the  night.  It  seemed  to  come  from  so 
far  away,  and  my  first  thought  was  to  look  around 
for  some  wild  animal  that  might  have  strayed  near  the 
camp.  I  saw  nothing,  however,  and  the  moaning  went 
on,  interrupted  by  long  periods  of  strange  and  ominous 
silence.  Then  came  a  distant  rumbling,  louder  and 
louder,  as  of  a  waggon  approaching  ;  and  presently 
I  did  see  a  waggon  in  the  far  distance.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  anyone  should  be  trekking  at  that 
time  of  the  night ;  evidently  it  was  a  fugitive  or  an 
inexperienced  hand.  At  first  I  refused  to  believe  my 
senses,  what  with  the  moonshine,  which  is  apt  to  be 
tricky  at  times,  and  with  the  murmur  of  the  wind  in 
the  bushes  ;  soon,  however,  I  was  obliged  to  believe 
my  eyes  and  ears,  for  there  was  a  great  big  waggon, 
drawn  by  four  oxen,  nearly  opposite  my  skerm,  just 
across  the  river.  A  man  was  walking  abreast,  a  white 
man,  though  he  was  considerably  sunburnt  (this 
much  had  I  made  out  in  the  moonlight)  ;  and  he  was 
smoking  a  cigarette.  He  had  probably  espied  our 
camp-fire  from  afar  ;  anyhow,  he  halted  his  team 
just  opposite  the  place  where  I  was  sitting,  and  cried 
out  to  me  in  a  tired  sort  of  voice : 

"  Hullo  !     Are  you  English  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  looking  intently  at  him — 
You  see  I  didn't  want  to  commit  myself  with  a  perfect 
stranger,  and  at  the  same  time,  you  can't  stand  on 


200  RATHER  LIKE.... 

ceremony  on  the  banks  of  the  Limpopo  as  on  those  of 
the  Thames. 

"  I'm  English  too,"  he  answered,  "  and  in  a  sorry 
plight.  I've  lost  all  my  beastly  niggers,  and  my 
wife's  ill  and  lying  in  the  waggon  :  could  you  lend 
me  a  hand  in  crossing  this  stream  ?  " 

"His  appeal  to  me  was  not  to  be  refused,  whatever 
he  may  have  been.  You  can't  ignore  a  white  man 
in  trouble  in  the  middle  of  an  African  forest.  Besides, 
the  extraordinary  fact  of  his  having  a  woman  with 
him  would  have  been  enough  to  secure  any  help  I 
might  have  been  able  to  give.  So  I  called  to  Jock 
and  Tim-Tim  to  cross  the  stream  and  catch  hold  of 
the  disselboom,  to  help  the  cart  cross  back  ;  which 
they  accordingly  proceeded  to  do. 

"And  then  occurred  the  unexpected,  and  a  wild 
scene  it  was,  I  can  tell  you.  Hardly  had  my  two 
kaffirs  begun  turning  the  Englishman's  unwilling  team 
towards  our  camp,  when  there  arose  a  mighty  roar,  this 
time  alarmingly  near  me.  Turning  round,  I  saw  a 
huge  lion,  bellowing  with  rage,  and  evidently  in  great 
pain  :  it  had  sprung  upon  a  part  of  the  buck  Tim-Tim 
had  begun  to  prepare  for  dinner,  and  had  spitted 
itself  on  the  impala  that  served  for  the  cooking.  I 
jumped  up,  caught  hold  of  my  trusty  Westly-Richards 
that  I  never  allowed  to  stray  out  of  my  reach,  and  let 
fly  at  the  brute.  The  bullet  certainly  did  not  miss 
its  mark,  as  I  ascertained  from  renewed  roars  ;  how- 
ever, it  failed  to  hit  a  vital  part,  and  the  beast  slunk 
away,  still  bellowing  ominously.  I  thought  it  best 
not  to  follow,  what  between  its  being  well-nigh  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  my  hearing  another  dreadful 
noise  just  at  the  same  moment :  there  was  the  waggon 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  with  my  two  kaffirs  and 
the  Englishman  driving  the  unwilling  team.  The 


H.   RIDER  HAGGARD  201 

second  ox  on  the  left  side,  evidently  more  frightened 
than  the  others,  let  out  a  wild  whoop  of  terror,  and 
suddenly  skreked  (i)  loose  from  its  leather  bands  ;  at 
the  same  time,  the  disselboom  of  the  cart  went  crash 
into  a  boulder  that  seemed  to  have  been  placed  there 
on  purpose.  All  was  a  scene  of  confusion  :  Tim-Tim 
and  Jock  were  swearing  at  the  other  oxen,  that  were  all 
three  of  them  moaning  dreadfully,  while  the  English- 
man shouted  wild  abuse  at  everybody  and  everything, 
and  a  softer  voice  arose  from  inside  the  waggon, 
shrieking  in  an  agony  of  fright.  I  registered  a  quiet 
oath  to  see  the  thing  through,  when,  to  crown  all, 
the  stray  bullock  suddenly  reappeared  on  my  side  of 
the  stream  :  there  came  a  mighty  roar,  a  piercing, 
ear-splitting  howl,  and  suddenly  the  wounded  lion 
came  bounding  on  the  poor  brute's  back.  In  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  describe  it,  I  let  fly  from  my  Westly- 
Richards — and  none  too  soon  either.  Even  as  it  was, 
however,  there  was  plenty  of  mischief  done,  as  you  will 
see  at  once  :  my  bullet  hit  the  lion  full  in  the  head, 
killing  him  instantly,  but  the  monster's  impetus  was 
such  that  it  fell  with  its  victim,  still  gripping  it  with  its 
powerful  claws,  right  into  the  very  middle  of  the 
striving  team  of  oxen.  The  confusion  was  indescrib- 
able, of  course,  but  that  was  not  the  worst  part  of  it. 
After  we  had  managed  to  clear  away  the  mess,  and  to 
disentangle  what  remained  of  the  oxen,  the  waggon 
and  men,  I  was  the  first  to  notice  that  my  unknown 
fellow-countryman  had  struck  headforemost  on  to  the 
boulder  ;  there  he  lay  quite  senseless,  and  I  was  making 
ready  to  pick  him  up  as  gently  as  I  could,  when  the 
rock  suddenly  gave  way,  rolled  on  to  the  shore,  and 
disclosed  a  sort  of  pit  that  looked  astonishingly  like  the 
entrance  to  an  underground  tunnel.  I  told  Tim-Tim 

(I)  To  skrek — To  break  loose  from  the  trek  tow. 


202  RATHER  LIKE.... 

to  examine  the  hole  with  care,  while  I  carried  the  un- 
conscious man  to  the  fire  ;  I  laid  him  down  on  a 
blanket,  and  his  wife,  who  had  got  out  of  the  cart, 
nursed  him  back  to  consciousness  :  it  did  not  last 
long,  however  ;  that  was  the  moment  he  gave  me  his 
name.  I  expect  he  felt  death  stealing  over  him,  for 
very  soon  he  said  :  "  Friend,  I  told  you  my  name  was 
Rorden  ;  well,  that  was  a  lie,  and  it's  not  the  time 
now  for  keeping  it  up.  My  real  name  is  William 
Thomas  Dorner,  and  my  unworthy  life  has  already 
been  saved  once  by  that  lady,"  he  pointed  to  the 
woman  who  held  him  in  her  arms;  "she  is  not  my 
lawful  wife,  but  Heaven  knows  she  could  not  have 
been  dearer  to  me,  or  acted  more  bravely  and  tenderly, 
if  we  had  been  regularly  married.  Promise  me  you 
will  treat  her  gently  and  see  her  back  to  England. . ." 
His  voice  died  out  at  that  point,  while  the  woman 
was  in  tears ;  however,  I  gave  the  required  promise, 
and  I  noticed  the  look  of  relief  that  came  into  his 
eyes  ;  then  he  sank  down  softly,  turned  a  little  to 
one  side,  and  lay  still. 

"  Little  remains  to  be  told.  The  stroke  of  ill-luck 
that  killed  Dorner  proved  the  means  of  my  providing 
amply  for  his  widow — I  am  sure  I  may  call  her  such. 
She  was  a  Dartmoor  girl,  and  her  accent,  I  remember, 
was  most  amusing  to  my  unsophisticated  ears.  Well, 
as  I  said  just  now,  when  I  saw  the  hole  left  open  by 
the  dislodged  boulder,  I  told  Tim-Tim  to  go  and  see 
what  it  wras.  Some  time  later,  he  came  back  crying  : 
"  Look  Inkoos  !  "  and  carrying  something  bright  in  his 
palm  :  I  looked  at  the  object  and  saw  it  was  a  necklace 
of  massive  gold.  So,  as  soon  as  we  had  disposed  of  the 
dead  man,  and  of  the  lion  that  had  caused  all  the 
turmoil,  after  having  made  things  shipshape  in  the 
camp,  I  went  by  myself  to  have  a  good  look  at  the  pit, 


H.   RIDER  HAGGARD  203 

and  most  remarkable  a  place  I  discovered  it  to  be. 
It  was  a  regular  treasure  chamber,  as  I  made  out  from 
some  inscriptions  I  found  on  large  stone  boxes,  as  big 
as  Egyptian  sarcophages  :  here,  I  managed  to  read, 
was  the  long  lost  treasure  of  King  Monolos,  of  whom 
so  many  legends  circulated  in  the  middle-ages,  and  now 
almost  forgotten  ;  here  was  a  find  worth  thousands, 
perhaps  millions  of  pounds !  Of  course,  it  would  have 
taken  several  months  to  exhaust  the  treasure,  and  it 
would  have  been  necessary  to  organize  a  digging 
expedition  on  quite  a  large  scale,  a  thing  I  immediately 
proposed  doing,  the  haul  being  the  rightful  possession 
of  Mrs.  Dorner — for  so  I  prefer  to  call  her.  However, 
she  would  hear  of  nothing  of  the  kind,  and,  as  I  myself 
am  sufficiently  well-off  to  end  my  days  without  know- 
ing want,  we  simply  let  the  matter  drop.  The  golden 
necklace  which  Tim-Tim  had  brought  back,  she 
accepted,  however,  and  I  sold  it  for  her  at  Pretoria  for 
two  thousand  pounds — a  pretty  sum,  as  you  see.  With 
this  money  she  set  out  for  England,  and  I  have  since 
heard  that  she  is  living  happily  in  a  little  Dartmoor 
village." 


204  RATHER  LIKE.... 


HENRY   SETON   MERRIMAN 

THE  REAPERS 
CHAPTER   I 

"  On  a  souvent  besoin  d'un  plus  petit  que  soi." 

IN  the  very  heart  of  busy,  bustling  Paris,  the  Rue 
Vrvienne  seems  to  stand  out  by  itself  for  its 
narrowness,  combined  with  the  large  amount 
of  traffic  that  passes  between  its  double  row  of  six- 
storeyed  houses.  From  five  or  six  in  the  morning,  when 
the  first  auto-buses  begin  to  thunder  through  its 
restless  depth,  far  out  into  the  sleeping  night,  it  is 
thronged  with  noisy  vans,  haughty  taxis,  and  a  swarm 
of  busy  pedestrians,  absorbed  "  hommes  d'affaires," 
well  dressed  clerks,  brokers  one  and  all,  on  their  way 
to  or  from  that  high  temple  of  pecuniary  gods — the 
Bourse.  They  walk  in  groups,  smile  their  enigmatic 
smiles,  while  from  time  to  time,  a  hint  that  may  be 
worth  a  fortune  drops  from  their  otherwise  sealed  lips  ; 
they  have  lunched  at  Champeaux's  or  Tabary's,  they 
have  taken  their  aperitif,  and  you  naturally  would 
suppose  they  leave  this  pulsating  corner  of  the  city  as 
soon  as  their  Temple  closes  its  doors  for  the  day. 


HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN  205 

Yet  the  Rue  Vivienne  is  as  crowded  at  five  as  it  is  at 
noon,  as  seething  at  eight  as  it  is  at  five.  Which  is 
easily  explained  on  the  ground  that  after  business  comes 
pleasure. 

The  first  and  deadliest  sign  of  decay  a  city  quarter 
may  give  is  the  stealthy  dying  out  of  the  pleasure 
grounds  that  used  to  flourish  within  its  bounds.  Which 
tends  to  prove  that  the  quarter  of  the  Bourse  is  in  full 
life.  For  not  only  is  it  a  centre  of  finance  in  the  day, 
but  it  becomes  the  very  heart  of  Paris  for  pleasure  in 
the  night ;  it  is  the  centre  of  gravity  of  theatres  and 
music-halls,  from  the  Seine  to  Montmartre,  and  from 
the  Madeleine  to  the  Place  de  la  Republique.  And  the 
bustling  financier  fills  so  well  his  vocation,  that  he 
automatically  transforms  himself  into  the  foremost 
"  viveur  "  or  the  most  professed  "  boulevardier  "  at 
the  stroke  of  the  hour  that  keeps  him,  till  the  following 
day,  outside  his  business-haunts.  Though  little 
dreamt  of  in  England,  such  a  transformation  exists, 
and  is  the  strongest  and  simplest  reason  for  the  lasting 
bustle  of  the  Rue  Vivienne. 

The  street  itself,  as  all  the  world  knows — or  pre- 
tends to  know,  being  a  very  ignorant  and  very  vain 
world — runs  perpendicular  from  the  Boulevards  to 
the  Bourse,  pursuing  its  unswerving  course  right  down 
to  the  faded  Palais-Royal ;  and  the  corner  of  the  Boule- 
vards is  not  ten  houses  distant  from  the  Theatre  des 
Varietes,  where  you  get  the  wittiest  laugh  in  the  world. 
And  till  about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  you  may  see 
it  filled  with  belated  theatre-goers,  pretty  women, 
and  the  usual  flotsam  that  haunt  the  fashionable 
pleasure  resorts  of  a  great  city. 

Along  this  street,  one  fine  night  in  May,  M. 
Ambroise  Dancart  was  pacing  his  solitary  steps. 
Monsieur  Dancart,  with  his  little  pointed  beard,  and 


206  RATHER  LIKE. . . . 

his  carefully  waxed  moustache,  was  not  the  type  of 
man  you  would  naturally  expect  to  meet  at  such  an 
hour  and  in  such  a  place ;  though  no  dandy,  he  was 
presentably  clad  in  evening  dress,  which  protruded 
from  under  his  light  grey  overcoat,  creating  in  the 
brain  of  the  placid  sergent  de  ville,  who  saw  him  pass 
along,  an  impression  of  stolid  respectability,  distant 
alike  from  the  foppishness  of  those  youths  of  our 
generation  who  loll  in  deep  chairs  with  their  knees 
higher  than  their  heads,  and  from  the  unnecessary 
severity  of  so  many  elderly  Englishmen.  He  was  of 
middle  height,  rather  small  than  otherwise,  and  had 
it  not  been  for  his  obviously  curt  manner  of  one  who 
observes  everything  and  forgets  nothing,  the  most 
remarkable  thing  about  him  was  that  he  was  quite 
unremarkable.  He  might  have  been  about  forty  years 
of  age,  judging  from  the  slight  stoop  of  his  back  and 
the  absence  of  grey  in  his  beard  and  what  was  visible 
of  his  hair.  There  was  something,  moreover,  in  the 
grim  set  of  his  tightly-pressed  lips,  that  suggested 
secrecy  and  victory  over  self.  In  short,  Monsieur 
Dancart  belonged  to  that  race  of  Frenchmen  who  are 
pleased  to  defy  the  time-worn  caricature  which  too 
many  so-called  "  humorous  "  artists  have  circulated 
among  alien  nations.  As  he  calmly  walked  along  the 
pavement,  his  glistening  grey  eyes  bespoke  that 
insight  into  human  nature  which  alone  makes  a  great 
hunter  or  a  great  captain.  He  had  come  down  the 
Boulevard  Montmartre,  dodging  leisurely  among  the 
compact  mass  of  pedestrians  who  crowded  it  at  that 
hour  when  the  theatres  were  disgorging  their  hundreds 
of  spectators  ;  there  he  had  felt  like  an  eel  in  the  hand 
of  an  angler,  never  so  happy  as  when  it  slips  away 
in  the  very  nick  of  time.  Then,  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  Vivienne,  he  had  suddenly  turned  to  the  left  down 


HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN  207 

the  little  street,  out  of  the  glare  of  the  powerful  lamps 
that  change  night  into  day  on  the  Boulevards. 

It  is  dangerous,  however,  for  an  eel  to  dodge  too 
much  ;  one  last  turn,  one  last  wriggle,  and  the  fish  is 
caught — just  like  in  the  game  of  repartee,  where  one 
ultimate  thrust  is  at  last  parried  and  thrown  back 
into  the  fencer's  very  heart.  As  Monsieur  Dancart 
came  abreast  of  the  glass-covered  and  dimly-lit 
Passage  des  Panoramas,  a  tall  and  obviously  blonde 
figure  suddenly  darted  from  out  of  the  passage, 
meeting  the  Frenchman  just  as  the  circus-rider  meets 
the  horse  galloping  round  the  ring. 

"  You  had  better  follow  me  quietly,"  said  the  new- 
comer, in  an  undertone  of  French  which  had  a  slight 
accent,  such  as  Germans  never  overcome.  His  manner 
of  speaking,  though  quiet  to  the  verge  of  placidity, 
was  unusual  enough  to  be  remembered  later,  and  there 
was  something  of  a  too  obtrusive  noiselessness  in  the 
mode  of  his  approach. 

Dancart  turned  to  face  the  stranger  who  addressed 
him.  There  is  none  so  ready  with  an  answer  as  your 
habitually  silent  man,  and  the  little  Frenchman's  lips 
hardly  moved  as  he  whispered  :  "  Ah !  Meyer  !  I 
thought  you  would  turn  up  round  here,  but  I  am 

armed,  and "  The  end  of  his  sentence  was  lost 

in  a  low,  gurgling  sound,  as  he  limply  dropped  into  the 
tall  man's  arms.  A  careful  observer  might  have 
noticed  the  handkerchief  clasped  in  the  newcomer's 
tightly-closed  fist,  when  first  he  came  upon  Dancart ; 
he  would  have  seen  the  clenched  hand  slowly  open, 
the  white  cambric  thrust  forward  under  the  French- 
man's nose,  and  would  not  have  failed  to  perceive 
the  sickening  smell  that,  for  an  instant,  pervaded  that 
corner  of  the  atmosphere  just  before  he  sank  upon  the 
other's  breast.  The  tall  man  swiftly  and  silently 


208  RATHER  LIKE.... 

carried  his  victim  into  a  taxi  that  was  waiting  opposite, 
and  noiselessly  drove  off. 

The  whole  scene  had  been  enacted  so  quickly,  so 
little  noise  had  been  made,  that  not  even  the  stolid 
sergent  de  mile  could  have  dreamt  that  here  was 
anything  but  the  chance  encounter  of  two  belated 
friends  driving  off  together.  Which  happened  to  be 
a  fact  ;  though  the  tall  kidnapper  failed  to  notice 
a  dark  figure  behind  one  of  the  lighted  windows  of  an 
entresol  opposite,  who  had  stood  peering  at  the  rapid 
drama,  and  hurriedly  opened  the  window  as  the  taxi 
moved  away. 


HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN  209 


CHAPTER  II 
"  A  renard,  renard  et  demi." 

THE  harbour  terminus  of  a  railway  line  is  not  a 
fashionable  resort  of  wealth  or  beauty,  for 
though  wealth  and  beauty  pass   below   its 
roof  on  their  way  to  or  from  waiting  trains,  they  do 
little  else  but  pass  indeed,  without  entertaining  for 
a  minute  the  idea  of  remaining  there  at  all. 

The  Gare  Maritime  at  Calais,  built  at  the  foot 
of  the  wooden  pier  that  reaches  far  out  into  the  Channel, 
is  as  typical  an  instance  as  any  other  ;  moreover,  as 
it  happens  to  be  out  of  direct  or  easy  communication 
with  the  town  itself,  it  is  usually  deserted.  For  facility 
of  communication  is  the  key-note  of  activity,  and  makes 
for  the  nine-tenths  of  that  greatly  debased  and  slandered 
valuable — success.  For  at  least  twenty  hours  of  the 
twenty-four,  the  station  appears  empty,  its  platforms 
unoccupied  by  anything  but  stray  dogs  or  wandering 
explorers  ;  there  is  no  sound  but  the  distant  rumble 
of  a  shunting  goods  train  or  the  angry  toot  of  a  steamer 
leaving  or  entering  the  quiet  harbour.  Were  it  not 
for  the  columns  of  smoke  that  arise  from  the  numerous 
chimneys,  and  the  obtrusive  posters  stuck  up  every- 
where— posters  advertising  the  numerous  and  other- 
13 


210  RATHER  LIKE.... 

wise  unrecognised  advantages  of  various  bathing 
resorts — Continental  or  British, — one  might  believe  the 
place  to  be  abandoned,  like  the  station  of  some  ultra- 
modern fairy-tale  princess  condemned  by  a  cruel 
stepmother  to  sleep  through  endless  years.  In  the 
other  four  hours,  however,  the  Gare  Maritime  is  a  real 
bedlam  of  activity.  In  the  shade  of  the  arcades,  at  the 
corners  of  the  buildings,  at  the  booking-offices,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  buffet  or  the  customs  searching  hall, 
men  stand  in  groups.  There  you  will  see  flocks  of 
railway  porters  and  commissionaires,  apparently  sprung 
up  from  nowhere  ;  the  little  stall  of  the  news  vendor 
suddenly  opens  into  a  galaxy  of  cosmopolitan  literature  ; 
clerks  run  bustling  about  from  one  office  to  another  ; 
there  you  may  see  podgy  little  interpreters  hailing  one 
another  in  a  language  that  is  a  mixture  of  French,  as 
it  is  spoken  by  Parisian  guttersnipes,  and  that  English 
that  seems  to  be  the  national  property  of  coster- 
mongers.  You  will  not  fail  to  come  across  the  inevit- 
able retired  sailor  who  clings  for  ever  to  the  bustle  of 
arrivals  and  departures  in  which  he  used  to  play  more 
active  a  part ;  for  a  man  never  loses  the  taste  for  that 
peculiar  branch  of  slavery  to  which  he  was  addicted 
so  many  years.  There  are  also  the  stray  travellers 
from  the  town  itself  waiting  for  the  train  or  the 
steamer  that  is  to  convey  them  to  other  shores,  and 
a  score  of  anxious  friends  or  relatives  awaiting  some- 
body's arrival.  This  bustle  and  life  recurs,  of  course, 
at  those  hours  of  day  or  night  when  the  Dover  boats 
are  due  to  come  and  leave,  with  their  indispensable  half 
dozen  trains  to  and  from  Paris,  Cologne,  Bale,  and 
other  continental  towns.  It  reaches  its  maximum 
in  the  very  first  hours  after  noon,  when  two  such  crises 
more  or  less  interfere  with  one  another,  melting  into 
one  longer  period  of  life,  babble  and  noise. 


HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN  211 

The  first  act  of  any  importance  in  this  succession 
of  events  is  the  arrival  of  the  first  Dover  boat,  which 
is,  of  course,  preceded  by  the  preparing  of  the  three 
or  fpur  trains  into  which  its  passengers  are  to  be  dis- 
charged, on  the  every  natural  grounds  that  they 
must  go  somewhere.  As  soon  as  the  boat  comes  up 
against  the  landing  pier,  it  is  taken  possession  of  by  the 
army  of  porters,  commissionaires,  and  interpreters, 
who  were  calmly  awaiting  the  event,  and  there  follows  a 
pandemonium  of  cosmopolitan  talk  compared  to  which 
Babel  must  have  been  child's  play.  Then  comes  the 
disembarking  of  the  ever  numerous  passengers — typical 
Englishmen  for  the  most  part,  with  their  countless 
portmanteaux  and  golf  clubs — which  is,  after  all,  not 
so  very  unlike  closing-time  outside  a  large  factory. 
The  travellers  are  made  to  pass  through  the  customs 
hall,  where  their  belongings  are  duly  searched  by  seedy- 
looking  officials  who  appear  to  revel  in  the  havoc 
they  are  playing  with  other  people's  possessions, 
after  which  they  are  allowed  to  settle  down  in  their 
appropriate  trains,  to  await  the  hour  of  departure 
in  the  dining  car  or  in  the  station  refreshment  rooms. 
Some — a  very  short  minority,  of  course — are  actually 
bound  for  Calais  itself,  and  drive  off  in  the  antique 
cabs  which  were  no  doubt  old  when  the  first  steamer 
made  its  apparition  in  the  Straits.  A  smaller  minority 
still  do  not  go  on  at  all,  their  business  taking  them  no 
further  than  the  Gare  Maritime  ;  for  the  world  is,  after 
all,  but  the  place  where  you  have  your  business  to 
transact. 

Among  the  latter  unusual  minority,  one  fine  day  in 
May,  was  a  tall  Englishman  who  seemed  to  know  his 
way  about  sufficiently  to  dispense  with  the  noisy 
services  offered  by  the  multifarious  porters  and 
commissionaires*  He  could  do  without  them  all  the 


212  RATHER  LIKE.... 

better  as  he  had  no  other  luggage  but  a  very  small 
dressing-case  which  he  easily  carried  in  his  left  hand, 
while  his  right  was  sufficiently  free  to  proffer  the  tickets 
and  other  flotsam  required  of  him  by  the  numerous 
officials  that  preside  over  these  ceremonies.  His  was 
the  typical  British  face,  rather  pale  of  complexion,  with 
blue  eyes  deeply  set  under  a  wide  forehead,  while  a 
stray  curl  of  flaxen  hair  was  apparent  under  the  rim 
of  his  cloth  cap.  A  quiet,  restful  man,  this,  whom 
the  ignorant  would  call  phlegmatic,  while  those  few  who 
see  below  the  surface  know  that  the  restful  man  is  he 
whose  life's  task  is  well  within  the  compass  of  his 
ability.  Of  such  a  type  was  Stuart  Rawdon,  whose  one 
and  only  aim  seemed  to  be  the  minding  of  his  own 
business — which  he  did  remarkably  well.  A  silent 
man,  moreover,  one  of  those  men  who,  if  they  have 
anything  to  say,  say  it,  but  if  they  have  nothing, 
remain  silent. 

There  are  many  talkers  in  this  noisy  world  of  ours, 
and  it  has  become  a  truism  to  state  that  activity  and 
babble  are  in  inverse  ratio  to  one  another.  The  doers 
are  not  those  that  prattle  ;  and  although  it  does  not 
follow  that  silence  means  activity,  nobody  will  dis- 
pute that  taciturnity  spells  purpose. 

Stuart  Rawdon  quickly  passed  through  the  crowd 
that  thronged  the  landing  pier  and  the  customs  hall, 
and  walked  straight  to  the  buffet,  like  one  who  knows 
what  he  wants  and  where  he  goes.  He  sat  down  at 
a  small  table  that  commanded  a  view  both  of  the  whole 
dining  room  and  of  the  arcade  without,  and  calmly 
proceeded  to  order  a  healthy  lunch.  A  woman  en 
voyage  never  eats  what  she  would  at  home  ;  a  man 
never  eats  anything  different ;  which  is,  of  course,  but 
one  way  of  illustrating  the  "  eternal  feminine."  Now, 
however,  the  simple  steak  on  Rawdon's  plate  pro- 


HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN  213 

claimed  him  a  man  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word,  and 
from  the  manner  in  which  he  did  justice  to  it,  you 
naturally  would  conclude  that  he  was  looking  forward 
to  some  important  business  that  might  excmde  the 
possibility  of  indulging  another  meal  for  some  time  to 
come.  His  lunch  finished,  he  drew  a  slip  of  paper  from 
his  coat-pocket,  a  white  telegram  at  which  he  glanced 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  already  in  complete  possession 
of  its  contents,  and  only  wishes  to  make  sure  of  every 
minutest  detail.  He  thrust  back  the  slip  into  his 
pocket,  looked  at  the  clock,  and  got  up  as  a  heavy  rush 
and  fumble  betokened  the  arrival  of  a  train  in  front  of 
the  station  building.  It  was  the  boat-express  from 
Paris,  timed  to  a  nicety,  and  after  a  few  seconds 
began  the  inevitable  rush  of  passengers  and  porters, 
this  time  towards  the  steamer  that  was  making  ready 
to  convey  them  to  England. 

Rawdon  cast  a  longside  glance  at  the  seething  crowd ; 
a  spark  flickered  for  an  instant  in  his  dreamy  eyes,  and 
he  quietly  walked  out  of  the  buffet,  through  the  corridor- 
entrance  of  a  first  class  compartment,  and  laid  his 
heavy  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  a  tall  and  obviously 
blonde  passenger  hurrying  towards  the  other  exit. 
The  man  turned  a  nonplussed  face  towards  the  unex- 
pected Englishman — a  face  in  which  astonishment 
and  fear  were  plainly  stamped. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  won't  take  the  Dover  boat  just 
now,"  said  Stuart  Rawdon,  in  that  quiet  voice  that 
bespeaks  at  once  purpose  and  victory. 

"  I — there  must  be  a  mistake — I  don't  know  you," 
replied  the  other,  with  the  same  harshness  of  tone  that 
had  proclaimed  him  a  Northern  man  two  nights  before 
in  the  Rue  Vivienne,  to  which  his  present  uncomfortable 
position  added  a  note  of  passing  anguish. 

It  is  dangerous  to  stop  a  first-class  traveller  in 


214  RATHER  LIKE.... 

the  midst  of  a  bustling  crowd,  as  many  have  learnt 
to  their  cost.  Now,  however,  there  was  something 
in  Rawdon's  quiet  determination  that  clearly  expressed 
the  knowledge  of  the  danger  he  was  running  against 
as  well  as  the  consciousness  that  he  held  higher  trumps 
in  his  own  hand. 

"  There  is  no  mistake  at  all,  Mr.— Meyer," — the 
name  came  out  after  some  hesitation,  that  was  full  of 
unspoken  meaning,  and  sufficient  to  impress  upon  the 
other's  already  wavering  mind  the  ascendency  of  a 
stronger  will ;  for  he  had  lost  that  unbounded  assurance 
which  almost  always  accompanies  the  greatest  of  human 
blunders.  "  I  know  all  about  your  little  game," 
Rawdon  quietly  continued,  "  my  friend,  Roger 
Delamare,  has  let  me  have  the  particulars — and,  in 
short,  I  have  been  commissioned  to  bring  you  back 
to  Paris,  where  you  will  kindly  take  me  to  M.  Am- 
broise  Dancart,  whom  you  have  managed  to  outwit 
the  day  before  yesterday.  It's  no  use  trying  to  resist ; 
I  have  the  order  for  your  arrest  in  my  pocket,  and 
I  intend  to  make  use  of  it  if  necessary.  Will  you  come 
on  quietly,  Mr.  Katzenstein  ?  " 

Some  words  produce  the  effect  of  a  whiplash. 
The  trapped  foreigner  suddenly  looked  up.  "  Gott  im 
Himmel !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  How  do  you  know  that 
name  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  just  now,'  answered  Stuart  Rawdon. 
"  Will  you  come  quietly,  or  do  you  want  me  to  call  for 
help  ?  " 

The  Englishman  obviously  meant  what  he  said, 
and  it  is  dangerous  to  cross  a  man  who  is  intent  on 
his  purpose,  and  victoriously  carrying  it  out.  The 
other  seemed  to  follow  his  memory  step  by  step, 
seeking  the  unknown  clue  which  had  enabled  this 
stranger  to  find  out  his  name  and  his  track.  How- 


HENRY   SETON  MERRIMAN  215 

ever,  to  find  a  clue  one  must  have  some  indication 
or  other,  and  he  had  none.  So  he  simply  turned  a 
half  puzzled,  half  angered  face  at  his  captor,  and 
meekly  followed  him  into  a  reserved  compartment 
of  the  rapide  that  was  getting  up  steam  to  convey  its 
load  of  pleasure-seekers  to  Paris. 


216  RATHER  LIKE.. 


CHAPTER    III 

"  L'amour  est  enfant  de  Boh  erne, 
Et  n'a  jamais  connu  de  loi." 

MONSIEUR  MEYER— Madame  de  Saragosse." 
Monsieur  Meyer  bowed  with  an  old-time 
elaborateness ;    Madame  de  Saragosse  in- 
clined her  fair  head  with  a  gleam  in  her  deep  blue 
eyes,  that  somehow  seemed  unusual  in  her  otherwise 
placid     countenance.     Their     hostess,     Madame     de 
Vermandois,  who  had  accomplished  the  banal  intro- 
duction, uttered  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  and  went  on  to 
other  duties. 

Monsieur  Meyer  appeared  to  know  practically  no 
one  amongst  the  brilliant  society  that  thronged  Madame 
de  Vermandois'  salon  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois.  His 
tall  and  conspicuously  blonde  figure  was  clad  in  the 
best-fitting  dress  suit  ;  from  his  well-groomed  hair  to 
the  tips  of  his  patent-leather  boots,  he  seemed  an 
eminently  presentable  specimen  of  manhood.  Yet 
something — perhaps  the  upward  curl  of  his  waxed 
moustache,  perhaps  the  slightly  exaggerated  erectness 
of  his  deportment — an  erectness  that  was  on  the  verge 
of  haughtiness — stamped  him,  upon  careful  scrutiny, 
as  a  foreigner.  This  impression  was  confirmed  when 


HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN  217 

he  spoke  ;  his  voice  was  that  of  a  trained  talker,  and 
the  choice  of  words  and  phrases  proclaimed  him  to  be 
a  man  of  the  world,  with,  perhaps,  more  than  the 
average  man  of  the  world's  share  of  that  superficial 
knowledge  and  general  learning  that  is  often  mistaken 
for  education  ;  yet  there  was  a  lingering  something  in 
his  accent,  a  hint  of  harshness  that  the  man  from  the 
North  never  completely  overcomes  when  he  attempts 
to  speak  in  a  southern  tongue — be  he  Russian,  Pole 
or  German.  The  lady  to  whom  he  had  just  been  intro- 
duced with  obvious  pleasure,  was  also  forsaken  by 
the  brilliant  crowd  that  attended  Madame  de  Ver- 
mandois'  soiree.  Black-haired  and  dark-eyed,  with 
her  regular  features  deeply  marked  on  her  handsome 
face,  she  certainly  was  striking  enough  to  challenge 
attention.  People  whispered  to  one  another  that  she 
was  a  princess  in  exile,  or  a  gypsy — both  of  which 
might  have  been  equally  possible  ;  many  of  the  youths 
present — youths  who  rowed,  and  rode,  and  roamed, 
and  smoked  gold-tipped  cigarettes  in  gilt  and  white 
boudoirs — would  have  liked  an  introduction  to  the 
fair-skinned  enchantress  from  the  south  ;  but  Madame 
de  Saragosse  was  not  officially  known  in  the  Parisian 
world  of  society  loungers,  so  they  turned  upon  her  a 
last  look  of  effeminate  despair,  and  sought  consolation 
elsewhere. 

Their  hostess  herself,  who,  it  was  to  be  feared,  was 
somewhat  cynical,  like  the  average  hostess  of  our  day, 
seemed  mightily  pleased  with  herself  at  having  de- 
livered her  two  solitary  guests  into  each  other's  hands. 
She  belonged  to  that  sort  of  modern  ladies  who  are 
never  so  happy  as  when  they  attend  to  other  people's 
business  ;  did  she  want  information  upon  any  subject 
that  tickled  her  feminine  fancy,  she  had  sure  methods 
of  ultimately  getting  at  the  root  of  the  matter,  for 


2i8  RATHER  LIKE.... 

she  did  ample  justice  to  that  ever-true  saying  of  old 
— cherchez  la  femme. 

That  was  probably  the  reason  for  the  presence  of 
Madame  de  Saragosse  in  her  salon,  for  a  woman  never 
does  anything  without  having  good  grounds  for  it. 

Monsieur  Meyer  offered  his  arm  to  his  fair  partner, 
and  she  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  a  secluded  corner, 
out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  the  idle  crowd  that  is 
all  the  more  inquisitive  about  other  people's  secret 
motives,  as  it  has  none  of  its  own.  When  they  were 
seated  in  the  convenient  nook  of  a  smaller  room,  he 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  am  thankful,  indeed,  to  the  Gods,  for  having 
been  introduced  to  you  at  last !  "  His  voice  swelled 
as  though  in  triumph. 

She  lifted  her  blue  eyes  to  his  for  a  single  instant, 
and  her  lips  parted  as  she  laughingly  answered : 
"  At  last  ?  Is  it  so  long  since  you  first  met  me  ?  " 

"  The  first  time  I  saw  you,"  he  said,  with  a  world 
of  meaning  in  his  eager  tones,  "  was  about  two  months 
ago — two  months  ago,  just  opposite  the  Louvre ; 
you  were  coming  out  of  the  little  stone  wicket  that 
leads  into  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  and  I  was  walking 
along  the  Rue  de  Rivoli " 

"  I  must  compliment  you  upon  your  memory — it 
is  excellent  indeed . ' '  There  was  something  very  slightly 
ironical  in  her  voice,  and  the  play  of  her  dark  eye- 
lashes added  a  touch  of  mockery  to  her  already  some- 
what feline  features.  Here  was  evidently  no  novict 
in  the  art  of  conversation,  but  a  woman  who  knew 
the  value  of  that  priceless  gem,  repartee. 

"  Yes,  my  memory  is  good,"  he  replied,  like  one 
trying  to  convince  an  incredulous  listener.  "  I  might 
tell  you  exactly  the  colour  of  the  dress  you  wore,  and 
the  shape  of  your  hat.  But  I  will  not  bore  you  with 


HENRY  SETON   MERRIMAN  219 

such  trifles.  I  have  something  much  more  important 
to  tell  you,  and  that  is  the  reason  I  came  here  to-night. 
A  friend  of  mine  told  me  you  were  to  attend  Madame 
de  Vermandois'  soiree,  and  I  came  here  solely  for  this 
minute — this  minute  in  which  I  may  at  last  express 
to  you  my  lifelong  devotion — and  my  love." 

The  fateful  word  had  been  said  at  last.  Madame 
de  Saragosse,  like  every  woman  who  has  received  the 
homage  of  a  man's  love,  strove  to  conceal  her  joy 
under  the  sphinx-like  smile  of  her  blue  eyes.  For  a 
woman  is  never  so  happy  as  when  a  man  has  declared 
that  she  is  all  to  him — and  never  so  enigmatical  as 
when  she  answers  his  ardent  profession. 

"  Indeed,  Monsieur,"  she  slowly  said,  without 
losing  that  slightly  mocking  tone  to  which  her  dark 
eyelashes  added  such  a  mysterious  charm,  "  indeed, 
you  say  that  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Madame,  I  say  so,  and  I  ask  for  nothing  else 
but  to  prove  it !  " 

Her  sparkling  eyes  swept  the  far  end  of  the  room  for 
an  instant,  and  lit  up  with  a  gleam  of  triumph,  such 
as  appears  in  the  glance  of  him  who  feels  he  will  be 
victorious  in  the  last,  definite  encounter. 

"  You  wish  to  prove — your  love — for  me  ?  "  she 
slowly  inquired.  He  hurriedly  nodded  his  head  in 
reply,  and  she  continued,  something  harsh  seeming  to 
intrude  upon  her  otherwise  musical  voice :  "  Prove  it—- 
by leaving  France  for  ever,  by  promising  never  to 
return  !  " 

"  What  you  ask  is  impossible  !  I— I  cannot  leave 
Paris  now!  Absolutely  I  cannot." 

"  Well,  then,  Monsieur  Katzenstein,  I  have  friends 
who  will  compel  you  to  leave." 

There  is  always  something  disquieting,  startling 
even,  in  an  unexpected  name  suddenly  thrown  into 


220  RATHER  LIKE.... 

your  face  when  you  were  the  least  awaiting  it.  Now 
the  effect  was  increased  tenfold  by  the  sudden  appari- 
tion of  three  newcomers.  Dancart,  Stuart  Rawdon 
and  another  man,  obviously  French,  quietly  surrounded 
the  sofa  on  which  "  Monsieur  Meyer "  was  sitting, 
now  deathly  pale.  The  third  of  the  party  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"  Monsieur  Katzenstein,"  he  said  in  a  perfectly 
even  and  passionless  voice,  "  it  is  no  use  your  pursuing 
this  comedy.  Three  days  ago,  you  managed  to  kidnap 
Monsieur  Dancart,  and  to  extract  from  him  a 
document  ...  of  the  highest  importance.  By  a  stroke 
of  good  luck,  I  happened  to  witness  the  little  scene — 
which  was  lucky  inasmuch  as  it  enabled  me  to  be  the 
means  of  avoiding  a  European  catastrophe.  My 
friend,  Mr.  Rawdon,  was  thus  able  to  leave  London  in 
time  to  stop  your  doing  any  mischief  by  bringing  this 
document  to  England — at  what  we  may  term  a — 
premature  hour.  Unfortunately  for  us,  you  were 
clever  enough  to  escape  from  his  hands  upon  your 
return  to  Paris.  And  it  rested  upon  Mademoiselle 
Vera  Gviasdovich  " — he  bowed  elaborately  to  the 
lady  who  had  been  known  as  Madame  de  Saragosse — 
"  to  put  you  once  more  into  our  hands.  Now  I  must 
ask  you  to  hand  back  the  document  you  were  kind 
enough  to — borrow  from  Monsieur  Dancart,  and  to 
leave  this  country  for  ever." 

There  are  moments  when  a  man  feels  he  has  lost 
a  game,  however  cleverly  he  may  have  played  his  hand. 
Only  fools  and  men  of  genius  pretend  not  to  know 
this  precise  moment.  Wherefore  Monsieur  Meyer, 
instead  of  straining  at  this  gordian  knot  to  prove  its 
strength,  as  a  woman  would  have  done,  calmly 
extracted  a  sealed  packet  from  his  breast  pocket,  and 
handed  it  to  the  speaker.  Vera's  eyes  followed  all  his 


HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN  221 

movements  with  that  feline  grace  which  Slav  women 
alone  possess. 

Monsieur  Meyer  rose. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  turning  a  parting  gaze  on  her 
fair  face,  "  I  suppose — we  shall  never — meet  again." 

And  he  slowly  walked  out  through  the  door. 


222  RATHER  LIKE.. 


JACK    LONDON 

THE  RIVAL  CALLS 

"  "X7"AH  !  Chook  !  Si  wash  !  "  The  man's  voice 
rang  out,  sharp  and  splitting  in  the  clear 
northern  night,  through  which  swept  sheer 
waves  of  cold  brilliancy  and  corruscating  bars  of 
greenish  white  that  blotted  out  the  stars.  The  dog, 
head  low  and  unseeing,  was  whining  softly  as  its 
muzzle  shot  through  the  tent  flap,  unheeding  the 
angry  words  and  the  whiplashes  that  came  raining 
upon  it.  At  fifty  below,  it  is  unwholesome  to  wander 
too  far  out  from  the  heat  of  the  stove,  and  the 
man  knew  the  wisdom  of  shoving  the  beast  back 
into  the  cold. 

Sharp  Fang  was  certainly  the  finest  sled  dog  from 
Dawson  to  Bering  Sea  ;  as  leader  he  had  no  equal, 
and  in  this  case  he  was  something  more  to  the  man 
than  a  mere  sled  drawer,  a  beast  to  which  alone  was 
the  glory  given  of  pulling  off  along  the  narrow  tracks 
that  were  already  glutted  with  the  bones  of  straggling, 
goldseekers.  He  was  something  of  a  friend,  since  man, 
in  the  individual  or  in  the  aggregate,  proves  himself 
unfit  to  live  alone,  and  is  therefore  driven  by  sheer 
necessity  to  take  his  pals  where  he  can  find  them. 


JACK  LONDON  223 

Here,  in  the  frozen  north,  any  distance  away  from 
Forty  Mile,  where  the  trail  forks  and  crosses  the  river 
to  Fort  Cudahy,  in  this  unregenerate  hell  of  ice  and 
snow,  where  the  caribou  shrills  in  the  fall,  and  the 
wolf-packs  growl  in  the  fierceness  of  the  arctic  winter, 
there  is  nothing  to  hold  a  man's  affections.  The  little 
voices  may  lure  him  on  and  on,  the  voice  of  the  gold 
he  thinks  to  win,  the  voice  of  the  stars  that  deck  the 
obfuscating  blue,  the  voice  of  the  Yukon  ;  but  that 
greatest  of  all  lures,  that  which  is  seen  nowhere  save 
in  a  woman's  eyes,  is  denied  him  out  there.  So, 
some  starving  day  of  hard  grub  and  harder  gold,  under 
the  bitter  sting  of  the  Arctic  frost,  the  long-delayed 
knowledge  is  vouchsafed  him  that  he  must  take 
something  to  his  heart.  In  the  northland,  such  know- 
ledge is  equal  to  that  of  Jehovah  in  the  matter  of 
potency,  and  there  begins  something  akin  to  friendship 
between  primeval  man  and  whining  beast. 

The  man  had  covered  endless  miles  of  tra^l  with  no 
better  companion  than  Sharp  Fang.  Up  the  Yukon 
he  had  gone,  up  into  the  north-east,  past  Koyokuk, 
Tanana  and  Minook,  up  along  the  trail  of  '98,  crossing 
and  recrossing  the  Circle,  through  the  Flats,  on  to  Eagle, 
covering  all  the  country  in  the  frantic  rush  for  gold. 
He  had  tried  for  and  lost  the  Eldorado  and  Bonanza 
claims,  he  had  come  into  an  occasional  find  immedi- 
ately succeeded  by  a  spree  and  a  bust  at  Dawson  ;  but 
although  he  had  more  than  once  staked  and  lost  his 
bottom  ounce  of  dust,  always  had  he  managed  to  keep 
the  dog  by  him.  Now  he  was  broke  again,  trailing 
far  into  the  bitter  North,  whose  voice  shrilled  more 
harshly  than  ever  into  his  frozen  ears.  Everything 
had  turned  out  wrong  this  trip,  and  not  even  the 
frizzling  grub,  the  frying  bacon  and  beans,  could  free 
his  mind  of  the  tormenting  grip  of  winter.  The 


224  RATHER  LIKE.... 

pressure  of  the  outside  cold  forced  the  inner  heat 
upward,  and  he  breathed  heavily  as  he  swore  at  the 
cringing  dog  without. 

The  beast  desisted  at  last,  and  the  man  huddled 
back  to  the  stove,  as  near  as  possible  to  its  grateful 
heat.  And  then  suddenly  there  came  a  fierce  growl, 
and  strung  along  like  a  shrilling  of  hell  winds  were  a 
succession  of  deep  howls  like  those  of  a  wolf-dog  mourn- 
ing at  the  moon.  The  tent-flap  was  again  pulled  up,  and 
through  the  slit  shot  in  a  bristling  mass  of  heaving  fur. 

The  dog  seemed  to  have  lost  all  heed  of  its  former 
self  ;  its  long  snout  was  thrust  forward  at  the  man's 
neck.  It  took  its  leap  like  any  wild  brute  in  the  lone- 
liness outside,  and  to  the  man  was  vouchsafed  the 
knowledge  that  it  must  have  gone  stark,  howling, 
mad.  It  missed  its  mark  by  a  hair's  breadth,  and  the 
sheer  strength  of  its  bound  brought  it  clean  on  the 
pan  where  the  beans  were  sizzling  on  the  stove. 

"  By  Gosh  !  "  let  out  the  man,  "  it  must  be  that 
streak  of  Siwash  !  'Course,  he's  got  the  wolf -blood 
in  him."  And  to  his  smarting  eyes  there  came  the 
vision  of  howling  packs  of  desert-wolves  unhaltingly 
following  a  lonely  sled-trail,  and  then,  after  the  last 
dog  had  dropped  and  been  thrust  into  the  starving 
greedy  throng,  making  short  work  of  the  stranded 
miner  left  alone  to  die  in  the  God-forsaken  wilderness. 
Many  were  the  tales  he  had  heard  of  the  screeching 
brutes,  and  now  he  remembered  that  many  of  the  best 
sled  dogs  are  but  little  better  than  wolves,  some  of  them 
having  been  born,  bred,  or  suckled  by  a  starved  out 
she-wolf  driven  to  the  shelter  of  man. 

Here  was  the  wild  come  back  with  a  vengeance, 
the  streak  of  wolf-blood  that  called  again,  louder  than 
any  other  voice,  and  drowning  them  all  in  its  primitive 
glory  of  unregenerate  power. 


JACK  LONDON  225 

Sharp  Fang  uttered  a  deep,  gutteral  howl  of  rage 
and  pain,  and,  hardly  recovering  its  balance,  crouched 
together  for  another  spring.  Its  grey  eyes  were  nearly 
shot  out  of  their  sockets,  and  its  clear  white  teeth 
shone  fiercely  through  the  half-lit  gloom  of  the  tent. 
An  instant  more,  and  the  bound  would  have  been  taken, 
the  cruel  fangs  would  have  been  driven  deep  into  the 
man's  throat :  but  that  moment  never  came.  The 
man  gave  out  a  low  groan  :  "  Ai !  Ya !  Sharp 
Fang  ! "  The  brute  responded  with  a  slow  whine,  and 
relaxed  its  crouching  attitude. 

A  second  later  there  was  vouchsafed  to  the  man's 
bloodshot  eyes  the  astounding  scene  of  the  wolfish 
brute  completely  calmed  down,  and  squatting  on  its 
hind  legs,  with  its  forepaws  beating  the  air  as  quietly 
as  the  best  trained  beast  could  do  in  a  Dawson  saloon, 
amid  the  smiling  eyes  of  nondescript  virgins  and 
heavy  jokes  of  breezy  miners.  Sharp  Fang  remained 
some  minutes  in  this  histrionic  pose,  still  whining 
softly  ;  then  sprawled  on  to  all  fours,  rubbed  its 
bristling  fur  against  the  man's  trembling  hand,  and 
quietly  stalked  back  into  the  howling  cold  without. 

"  What  the  flaming ",  began  the  man.     "  Hold 

on,"  he  continued,  his  countenance  relaxing,  "  of 
course  his  father  was  Jake  Briggs'  circus  dog,  an'  'e 
ain't  no  call  to  obey  the  streak  of  Siwash  to  the  bitter 
end  !  " 


226  RATHER  LIKE.. 


G.    BERNARD   SHAW 

THE  EXPLOITERS 

A  decidedly  unpleasant  play. 

A  fine  May  morning  in  the  cousultingroom  of  a 
middleclass  London  doctor.  It  is  a  district  rather  remote 
from  Harley  Street  ;  and  the  practitioner  is  simply  an 
ordinary  one,  with  no  hairbrained  speciality  that  enables 
him  to  curtail  his  work  and  double  his  fees.  The  room 
is  not  very  large,  rents  being  high  even  in  not  fashionable 
parts.  Looking  eastward  from  within  instead  of  west- 
ward from  without,  the  street  outside  is  seen  through  a 
couple  of  the  usual  nonetoolarge  and  curtaindarkened 
windows,  between  which  you  see  an  oilpainting  dimly 
representing  a  most  respectable  gentleman  in  the  costume 
of  1830.  The  wall  in  front  of  you  has  a  door,  leading 
into  the  waiting-room  :  naturally  the  best  furnished 
one  in  the  house.  The  other  wall,  which  slants  down 
westwards,  also  has  a  door,  leading  into  Dr.  Periton's 
private  study.  The  fireplace  is  on  this  side  of  the  room  ; 
and  the  mantelpiece  has  the  usual  ornaments  :  a  pair 
of  antique-looking  chandeliers,  a  marble  clock  and  a 
perpetual  calender.  The  furniture,  which  may  have 
been  acquired  second-hand  at  Christies' ',  comprises  a  desk 


G.   BERNARD  SHAW  227 

with  a  few  medical  implements  and  writing  requisites  ; 
a  cupboard,  now  open,  in  which  you  may  see  a  lot  of  flasks, 
a  mortar  and  pestle,  and  various  other  instruments  ; 
the  doctor's  chair,  a  couple  of  repcovered  easy  chairs  for 
visitors,  and  half  a  dozen  cane  chairs  strewn  about  the 
room. 

The  scene  shows  the  middle-classedness  of  the  whole 
neighbourhood. 

A  young  lady  is  sitting  in  one  of  the  easy  chairs. 
She  is  dressed  in  the  noncommittal  tailormade  costume 
of  1910,  with  a  flavor  of  eccentricity  in  the  green  color 
of  her  veil,  which  is  drawn  up,  revealing  a  pink  com- 
plexion, grey  eyes  visibly  absorbed  in  revery,  and  a  little 
pugnose,  which  in  a  lady's  face  can't  be  called  otherwise 
than  charming. 

Dr.  Periton  is  standing  over  her ;  he  is  about  40 
years  of  age,  with  the  best  bedside  manners  ;  sharp- 
featured,  but  with  a  caressing  voice  that  tries  to  get  to 
the  heart  of  his  patients — and,  as  often  as  not,  fails  in 
the  attempt.  He  has  evidently  failed  just  now. 

PERITON  :    Well,  dont  you  think  so,  my  dear  young 

lady? 
THE  YOUNG  LADY  i    No,  I  dont.     I'm  sure  you  arnt 

the  doctor  they  thought  of  sending  me  to.     Youve 

felt  my  pulse  and  seen  my  tongue,  and  now  you 

say  Ive  got  neuralgia.  .  .  . 

PERITON  [sweetly]  :    Gastralgia — thats  what  I  said. 
THE  YOUNG  LADY  :    How  CAN  you  know  that  ?     You 

didnt  even  wait  for  me  to  tell  you  my  symptoms. 
PERITON  :    Why,  my  dear  young  lady,  thats  exactly 

what  you  wanted  me  to  do,  isnt  it  ?     You  see, 

I'm  a  doctor. 
THE  YOUNG  LADY  :    Yes,  but  you  neednt  pretend  to 

know  whats  the  matter  with  me  after  two  minutes 


228  RATHER  LIKE.... 

of  conversation.  The  idea  !  One  might  think  I 
were  your  daughter,  by  the  things  you  said  about 
me. 

PERITON  [impressed  by  her  words]  :  I  daresay  I  shouldnt 
know  you  so  well  if  you  WERE  my  daughter.    By 
the  way,  how  do  you  know  youre  NOT? 
THE  YOUNG  LADY  i    Because  your  names  Periton  and 

mines  Harper,  thats  all. 
PERITON  :    Yes,  I  daresay.     But  then,  what  does  that 

prove  ?     Do  you  know  your  father  at  all  ? 
THE  YOUNG  LADY  :   No,  I  dont.     But  what  does  that 

prove  ? 
PERITON  :    Not  much,  I  grant. 

An    uncomfortable    silence    ensues,    after    which    he 
resumes : 

May  I  ask,  are  you  Miss  Harper  or  Mrs.  ? 
THE  YOUNG  LADY  i    Why,  dont  you  know  ?     Youre  a 
doctor.  .  .  .  However,  I  dont  mind  telling  you 
my  full  name  is  Miss  Elisabeth  Harper. 
PERITON  :  Elisabeth  ?     Indeed  ? 

His   brows  go   up,    expressing  great   agitation.     At 

the  same  moment  the  door  of  the  waiting-room  bursts 

open  ;   and  a  man  of  forty  or  thereabouts  walks  into  the 

room,  without  having  knocked  at  the  door,  or  otherwise 

bowed  to  the  usual  decorum  of  middleclass  life.     The 

newcomer,  tall  and  clean-shaven,  except  for  a  moustache, 

wears  an  unconventional  serge  suit  and  a  bowler  hat, 

which  he  hastily  removes  on  seeing  the  lady.     He  then 

dashes  right  up  to  the  doctor. 

PERITON  :  What !     Hopkins  ?.  .  .  .  You  ...  I  ... 

HOPKINS  :    Sorry  to  disturb  you,  I'm  sure.     But  I 

cant  help  it.     [Turning  to  Elisabeth  uith  his  first 

demonstration    of  politeness    since    his    entrance] 

Excuse  me,  Madam  :    my  call  is  certainly  more 

urgent  than  yours. 


G.   BERNARD  SHAW  229 

ELISABETH  [outraged]  :   Oh,  of  course,  youre  a  MAN. 

HOPKINS  [regardless  of  the  taunt,  to  Periton]  :  Periton, 
youre  a  swindler ! 

PERITON  :  Excuse  me,  I'm  engaged  at  the  present 
moment.  My  patient.  .  .  . 

HOPKINS  [interrupting}  :  I  dont  care  a  fig  for  your 
patient,  I.  ... 

ELISABETH  :  Of  course.  A  full-sized  monkey  like  you 
wouldnt  eat  figs.  It  feeds  on  acorns. 

HOPKINS  [ignoring  her]  :  Periton,  do  you  know  youre  a 
good,  fat,  healthy  beast  of  a  usurer,  and  a  thick- 
headed, disgusting  exploiter  of  the  helpless  into 
the  bargain  ?  Do  you  know  you  grind  your  fees 
out  of  the  poor  beggars'  pockets  before  youve 
killed  them,  and  snatch  their  bodies  out  of  their 
graves  when  you  H  AVE  ?  Youre  a  disgrace  to  a 
civilised  country,  and  I  felt  I  could  have  no  rest 
till  I'd  thrown  your  damned  filth  into  your 
scoundrely  face  !  There  ! 

PERITON  :  Kindly  leave  this  room  at  once,  sir !  I 
wonder  dont  you  know  youre  a  human  life  sucker 
yourself.  [Turning  to  Elisabeth  with  his  most 
professional  air.]  I  must  apologise  for  this  man's 
conduct,  Miss  Harper.  If  he  doesnt  leave  my 
house  instantly,  I'll  telephone  for  the  police.  .  .  . 
As  I  was  saying  when  he  came  in,  youre  suffering 
from.  .  .  . 

ELISABETH  :  No,  please  dont  insist.  I  thought  I  was 
at  a  doctor's  ;  but  now  1  know  better.  Oh,  you 
hypocrite !  [she  bursts  out  sobbing  hysterically]. 

PARLOUR-MAID  [opening  the  door  of  the  waiting-room]  : 

Lady  and  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir  :   Mrs.  Harper 

and  the  Rev.  Joseph  Knock  jaw. 

She    ushers    the   visitors   into   the   consulting-room. 

The  lady  is  middle-aged  and  stoutish,  with  a  pleasant 


230  RATHER  LIKE.... 

face  and  rather  coarse  features.  She  is  attired  in  a  fash- 
ionable silk  dress  that  would  be  in  its  place  in  Ostend  or 
Brussels,  in  the  season,  but  glares  horribly  in  the  milder 
atmosphere  of  a  London  suburb.  The  gentleman  is 
everything  you  can  expect  from  his  title. 
PERITON  :  Really,  I  cant.  .  .  . 

MRS.  HARPER  [running  towards  Elisabeth]  :  Come, 
Betty,  my  dear.  How  anxious  I  felt  about  you  ! 
Why  couldnt  you  go  to  a  decent  doctor's  ?  I 
wonder  are  you  aware  I  know  nearly  all  the  Harley 
Street  specialists  ?  Instead  of  which  you  rush 
to  the  first  charlatan  you  happen  to  come 
across.  .  .  . 
PERITON  [white  with  indignation  and  amazement]  : 

Madam,  do  you  know  who  youre  talking  of  ? 
MRS.  HARPER  :  Yes,  I  do.  I  wonder  have  you  the 
cheek  to  trap  a  defenceless  girl  into  your  consult- 
ing-room ?  I  thought  something  horrible  had 
happened  to  my  poor  Betty  the  moment  1  missed 
her  ;  but  I'd  never  have  imagined  anything  so 
horrid  as  THAT,  if  my  old  friend  here  [pointing 
to  the  Rev.  J.  K.]  hadnt  put  me  on  your  track. 
THE  REV.  j.  :  Yes,  Ive  had  my  eye  on  Mr.  Periton  for 
some  time  ;  and  I  know  the  way  he  derives  his 
income. 

PERITON  :    What  do  you  mean,  sir  ? 

THE  REV.  j.  :  I  mean  what  I  say.    Youre  one  of  those 

deceitful  men   who   stick   at   nothing   to   attain 

their  own  evil  and  selfish  ends.     Under  cover  of 

your   medical   profession,    youre   nothing   better 

than  a  vulgar !     No.     I  wont  say  the  word 

in  the  presence  of  these  ladies  ;    but  you  under- 
stand perfectly  well  what  I  mean  ! 
ELISABETH  :   Oh  !     How  awful !      Mamma,    I  thought 
he  was  an  honest  man !     Why,  he  even  told  me 
he  might  be  my  father  ! 


G.  BERNARD  SHAW  231 

MRS.  HARPER  [scandalized]  :  Betty  !  You  dont  know 
what  youre  saying. 

HOPKINS  [coming  forward  suddenly,  and  chucking  Betty 
under  the  chin]  :  No  more  you  do,  my  dear. 

MRS.  HARPER  :   How  dare  you,  sir? 

HOPKINS  :   Why  not  ?     I'm  not  her  father  ! 

MRS.  HARPER  [lapsing  into  her  natural  manner]  :  Oh  ! 
To  think  of  this  happening  to  me  !  And  in  London 
too  !  Isnt  this  a  civilised  country,  Id  like  to 
know  ?  Oh,  that  men  should  be  so  cruel  .  .  .  ! 
[to  the  Rev.  J.,  who  looks  on  rather  absently]  : 
Joseph,  why  cant  you  defend  me  ?  Damn 
you! 

THE  REV.  j.  :  Restrain  yourself,  Mary,  restrain  your- 
self. [To  Hopkins,  who  is  staring  open-mouthed 
at  Mrs.  Harper  and  is  visibly  attracted  by  her  hand- 
some features  and  coarse  speech].  Do  you  know 
what  you  have  done,  sir  ?  This  lady  [pointing 
to  Mrs.  Harper]  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine  ;  and 
youve  no  business  to  insult  either  her  or  her 
daughter. 

HOPKINS  :   Look  here,  werent  you  at  Oxbridge  in  '92  ? 

THE  REV.  j.  [dumbfounded]  :    Yes.     What  of  that  ? 

HOPKINS  :  Nothing.  You  dont  happen  to  remember 
a  young  lady  that  was  there  at  the  time  ?  Miss 
Violet  Vavasour  ? 

THE  REV.  j.  :   What  do  you  mean,  you  blackguard  ? 

HOPKINS  :  Youre  as  much  of  a  blackguard  as  I  am, 
anyway.  I  wonder  do  you  know  I'm  Miss  Vava- 
sour's husband  ? 

THE  REV.  j.  :   Her  husband  ?  ^ 

PERITON  [leaping  up  to  him]  :  You  !  !  !  Her  husband  ? 
Liar  !  I  married  Miss  Vavasour — That  [pointing  to 


232  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Mrs.  Harper]  is  Miss  Vavasour.  [He  suddenly 
turns  to  her  in  a  rage].  Yes  :  I  call  you  to 
witness. 

MRS.  HARPER  :  What  this  man  says  is  true.     He  I  s  my 

husband.     [Turning  to  Periton]  Oh,  George,  why 

coutdnt  you  hold  your  tongue  ?     I  recognized  you 

at  once.  .  .  . 

THE  REV.  j. :  There  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere.    I'm 

sure.  .  .  . 

MRS.  HARPER  \  Theres  no  mistake,  Joseph  ;  only  my 
sister  and  I  were  twins,  and  SHE  was  called  Violet 
...  on  the  stage.  Shes  living  at  Vienna  now, 
very  rich,  and  quite  respectable,  arid  she  married 
pointing  to  Hopkins]  HIM. 
ELISABETH  :  So  that  man  [pointing  to  Periton]  is  my 

father  ? 

PERITCN  :   Yes,  my  dear. 

ELISABETH  :  Dont  call  me  your  dear !  I  wont  have  it ! 
and  I'm  not  your  dear  :  I'm  nobody's  dear  !  I 
belong  to  myself  only  ! 

HOPKINS  [sneering]  :  Yes  :  you  can  afford  to  belong  to 
yourself,  on  the  substantial  income  your  mother 
and  father  provide  you  with.  Most  substantial 
it  is,  too,  and  come  by  in  the  most  honorable 
way ! 

THE  REV.  j. :  I'm  sure  this  is  the  moment  to  turn  over  a 

new  leaf  :   religion  must  come  back  upon  all  men. 

PERITON  :  Oh  !  Stop  your  damned  cant,  you  scoundrel ! 

Dont  you  know  youre  every  bit  as  bad  as  all  the 

rest  of  us  ?     I  wonder  dont  you  know  YOUR 

income  is  derived  from  the  mortgage  you  hold 

over  the  .  .  .  property  Hopkins  has  in  several 

continental  towns  .  .  .  Private  hotels  they  are, 

and  managed  by  ...  er  ...  Mrs.  Harper. 

MRS.  HARPER  :  Yes,  and  provided  for  by  you. 


G.  BERNARD  SHAW  233 

ELISABETH  :     Oh !     You    filthy    rascals !     I'll  never 
speak  to  any  of  you  again  !     I'll  go  and  marry 
my  American  prince  instead  ! 
She  rushes  hysterically  out  of  the  room  ;  Mrs.  Harper 

arms  erect,  strikes  her  favorite  coarse-grained  attitude  ; 

Periton  and  Hopkins  seem  ready  to  jump  at  each  other's 

throats,  whilst  the  Rev.  J.  glares  at  everybody. 


234  RATHER  LIKE.... 


JEROME   K.   JEROME 

THE  STAGE  STUDENT 

HE  is  a  remarkable  product  of  humanity — the 
Stage  Student.  Not  that  he  is  sometimes  in 
a  hole  for  want  of  money,  and  thinks  of 
pawning  his  last  umbrella — a  valuable  heirloom 
from  his  second  cousin,  who  was  grandson  to 
the  bosom-friend  of  a  very  celebrated  old  man, 
not  because  of  that,  bless  his  heart,  no  !  Why, 
I  myself  have  often  felt  like  pawning  my 
umbrella — have  done  it  more  than  once,  in  fact  ; 
and  I  don't  feel  a  bit  more  remarkable  for  it.  But 
what  always  strikes  me  as  peculiar  to  the  stage  student 
is  that  he  never  seems  to  get  hold  of  anything  at  all 
in  the  way  of  cash — he  is  continually  stonybroke — 
and  yet  he  manages  to  jog  along  all  right,  and  to 
pursue  his  brilliant  career  as  a  student.  Besides,  he 
always  has  something  to  pawn,  as  a  last  resource  ; 
indeed,  the  presence,  at  a  period  of  desperate  straits, 
of  a  valuable  and  hitherto  overlooked  pawnable  object 
appears  to  be  quite  a  distinctive  feature  of  a  student's 
life — in  plays.  Now,  it  is  a  simple  thing,  pawning,  and 
I  have  often  enough  wanted  to  do  so  ;  but  it  is  another 
instance  of  the  fickleness  of  the  jade  Fortune,  that, 
whenever  /  had  most  need  to  try  it,  I  never  could  lay 


J.   K.   JEROME  235 

hands  on  anytliing  more  valuable  than  a  French 
postage-stamp  for  25  centimes  (used)  or  a  broken 
teacup  (generally  my  landlady's).  And  my  friends 
were  just  as  bad,  all  of  them. 

Speaking  of  friends,  that  is  another  characteristic 
trait  of  the  stage  student.  He  seems  to  have  friends 
all  about  the  world,  and  real  bricks  they  must  be,  too. 
One  of  them  has  a  sister,  quite  the  loveliest  girl  you 
ever  saw,  and  as  simple  and  charming  as  a  new-born 
babe  ;  apparently  she  does  not  know  what  money  is 
— may  have  heard  of  it,  in  a  casual  sort  of  way, 
but  has  certainly  never  seen  or  had  any  of  her  own. 
Her  ideal  of  life  is  a  penny  ride  on  the  Putney  steamers, 
and  a  jam  tart  when  she  comes  back  ;  that  is  all  she 
expects  from  the  man  she  is  going  to  marry — who  is, 
of  course,  no  other  but  the  student  himself.  Why 
the  marriage  does  not  immediately  take  place,  I  really 
don't  know,  because,  after  all,  the  stage  student  might 
easily  provide  his  bride  with  the  above-mentioned 
luxuries  at  reasonable  intervals,  say  once  a  month — 
bank-holidays  extra.  Of  course,  if  they  did  marry  at 

once,  there  would  be  no  play,  and  then So  that 

is  doubtless  the  reason  why  they  don't. 

Besides  the  friend  with  the  nice  sister,  the  stage 
student  has  quantities  of  others.  He  must  get  them 
wholesale.  One  of  them  has  a  second  cousin  who  is 
in  the  Civil  Service,  and  another  is  a  military  attache" 
in  Paris  (or  is  it  in  Peru  ?  A  mere  difference  of  name, 
of  course).  Now,  although  I  myself  had  a  good  many 
acquaintances  in  my  youthful  days,  I  really  don't 
remember  having  had  any  in  that  exalted  line,  and, 
what  is  more  important  still,  none  of  them  seemed  to 
know  any  foreign  ambassadors  or  military  attaches. 
Of  course,  I  am  prepared  to  admit  they  and  /  were  to 
blame  for  it,  but  it  remains  a  fact  for  all  that. 


236  RATHER  LIKE.... 

They  are  tricky  creatures,  friends.  I  used  to  have 
a  good  many  of  them,  mostly  fellows  with  healthy 
appetites  and  little  cash — though  nothing  like,  in 
numbers,  those  the  stage  student  can  boast  of.  One 
friend  I  had,  I  remember,  was  the  possessor  of  a 
sister  ;  he  used  to  talk  of  her  pretty  lengthily  at  times, 
but  somehow  he  never  seemed  inclined  to  produce  her. 
I  conjured  up  to  myself  visions  of  a  fair  girl  in  a 
ravishing  Liberty  gown,  nibbling  sugar  at  the  break- 
fast table,  and  ordering  the  domestic  staff  all  about 
the  house.  One  day,  however,  this  notion  exploded. 
Christina — that  was  her  name — married  a  third-rate 
Chelsea  clergyman,  and  I  eventually  saw  her  at  a 
garden-party  to  which  I  managed  to  get  myself 
invited.  Of  course,  I  ought — according  to  the  laws  of 
Stageland — to  have  fallen  desperately  and  hopelessly 
in  love  with  her  ;  but  for  the  life  of  me,  I  couldn't. 
She  was  about  six  feet  two  (I  am  a  small  man  myself), 
and  certainly  quite  plain  enough  to  be  a  suffragette. 
Another  acquaintance  of  mine,  rather  smaller  at  the 
time,  was  the  son  and  heir  of  a  bosom-friend  of  one  of 
my  maiden  aunts.  He  was  all  right,  as  far  as  boys  go, 
but  in  a  bachelor's  rooms  he  was  utterly  impossible. 
My  domestic  staff  then  consisted  of  a  buxom  landlady, 
Mrs.  Warbler,  and  my  usual  diet  was  haddock  and 
bloater,  all  three  of  which  appeared  to  disagree  with 
Tommy's  constitution. 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  the  stage  student  is  quite 
a  remarkable  fellow  in  his  way.  He  does  all  sorts  of 
things  I  never  dreamt  of  doing,  and,  of  course,  there 
are  lots  of  others  he  leaves  undone.  For  instance, 
he  doesn't  seem  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  word 
exam.  What  he  is  driving  at  the  whole  day  long  is 
a  mystery  to  me  to  the  present  day,  and  I'm  sure  it 
must  be  to  him  also.  Of  course,  I  know  scores  of 


J.   K.   JEROME  237 

young  people  who  jog  along  without  seeming  to  fully 
satisfy  their  soul's  demands  for  medicine,  law, 
or  mathematics.  Take  mathematics,  for  instance ; 
it's  a  simple  thing,  mathematics  —  all  about 
cubes  and  square  roots,  and  sines  and  tangents ; 
well,  I  happen  to  know  a  good  many  fellows 
who  stuff  themselves  more  or  less  full  of  them. 
Mind,  I  don't  mean  to  say  they  wouldn't  prefer  to  go 
boating  or  flirting  with  a  nice  girl ;  but  the  fact 
remains  that  they  don't  spend  the  whole  precious 
day  going  into  raptures  about  their  love,  or  singing 
songs  of  despair  because  they've  lost  their 
bottom  shilling — while  they  take  an  extra-special 
gold-tipped  cigarette  out  of  a  solid-gold  chest  and 
light  it  negligently  with  a  match  from  a  jewelled  box. 
No,  they  are  different,  these  friends  of  mine — why, 
so  was  I  myself,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it :  we  got  a 
good  deal  of  fun  out  of  life,  of  course,  but  our  days 
were  haunted  by  that  frightful  nightmare — exams. 

When  I  was  very  young  and  inexperienced,  I  used 
to  think  exams  were  tortures  worse  than  any  of  those 
invented  by  the  kind  old  Mother-Inquisition,  specially 
organised  for  the  survival  of  the  unfittest.  Nervous- 
ness, a  shade  of  bashfulness,  mayhap,  and  over  and 
above  all,  the  bleak  and  deathly  frown  of  the  jade 
Chance — all  these,  combining  their  forces  against  a 
hard-working  and  simple-minded  youth,  are  quite 
sufficient  to  get  him  plucked  in  any  examination  he 
may  care  to  enter  for.  That  is  what  I  thought  in  my 
halcyone  days  of  youth — in  those  days  when  I  myself 
was  subject  to  the  ordeal  of  exams.  Now,  however,  I 
am  grown  older — and  I  don't  know.  I  don't  want 
to  behave  like  the  nurse,  who  sent  the  eldest  girl  to 
see  what  Tommy  was  doing,  and  tell  him  he  mustn't. 
It's  all  very  well  to  condemn  exams. — it's  easy  to 


238  RATHER  LIKE.... 

condemn  anything ;  but  what  are  you  going  to  have 
in  their  place  ?  Choice  ?  The  drawing  of  lots  ? 
Cricket  matches,  or  singular  combats  ?  Any  of  these 
might  meet  the  case,  of  course,  but  who  could  seriously 
contend  they  would  prove  better,  in  the  long  run  ? 
No,  my  dear  young  man,  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  put 
up  with  exams  for  some  time  to  come — and  to  compete 
against  scores  of  pretty  girls  into  the  bargain  :  you'll 
have  to  face  your  nervousness,  and  your  shyness,  and 
the  fickleness  of  fortune — yes,  you'll  have  to  face  them 
all,  as  you  do  now — and  you'll  do  well  to  remember 
that  the  best  way  of  facing  them  is  not  to  grind  your 

teeth,  and  rattle  out  " "  (or  words  to  that  effect) 

but  to  put  your  heart  into  your  work,  and  to  have 
a  sufficient  knowledge  of  what  you're  going  to  be 
asked.  And  you,  my  dear  young  lady,  junior  wrangler 
or  Girton  girl,  you'll  wipe  those  pretty  eyes  of  yours 
and  put  away  those  blushes  :  they  may  help  you  to 
ensnare  a  youthful  cousin,  but  they  must  be  of  no 
avail  for  the  infinitely  more  serious  business  of  passing 
your  exam. 

He  is  also  a  fine  singer,  that  stage  student  of  ours. 
His  voice  is  a  graceful  tenor,  of  course,  and  when  he 
chirps  "  When  other  lips,"  that  alone  is  amply  suffi- 
cient to  turn  all  the  pretty  heads  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Now,  whenever  I  or  any  of  my  student  friends  tried 
to  sing — a  thing  we  did,  not  unfrequently,  I  remember, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  a  rickety-rackety  piano,  and 
a  mandoline  always  drepressingly  flat  in  the  E — 
we  didn't  turn  any  heads  at  all,  except  that  of  my 
domestic  staff,  who  would  come  up  in  a  most  dignified 
manner,  and  exclaim,  "  Lor,  sir,  I  do  declare  !  Wot'll 
you  young  gentlemen  be  up  to  next,  I  wonder  ? 
An'  my  'usband  as  is  down  wi'  'numatics,  too ! " — 
which,  as  often  as  not,  put  a  stop  to  our  vocal  exertions. 


J.   K.   JEROME  239 

There  was  a  fellow  I  knew  at  one  time,  a  most  dis- 
reputable wretch,  I  must  acknowledge,  who  was 
possessed  of  a  remarkable  talent  in  the  musical  art ; 
he  gave  marvellous  imitations  of  sick  animals  ;  his 
impersonation  of  a  calf  with  a  cold  in  its  head  was 
enough  to  put  a  whole  house  into  hysterics  ;  indeed, 
it  often  did,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  landladies 
gave  me  instant  notice  after  suffering  his  masterful 
performances.  Yes,  a  most  disreputable  wretch  he 
was,  and  sadly  did  he  end  :  he  is  now,  I  believe,  what 
is  called  an  Illustration  of  the  Bar,  and  has  recently 
taken  silk  and  added  a  Sir  to  his  name ;  I  believe  he 
still  indulges  his  vocal  talent  from  time  to  time,  though 
he  enjoys  larger  audiences  now,  and  no  member  of 
any  domestic  staff,  however  exalted,  dares  object 
to  his  feats. 

Another  thing  the  stage  student  does  with  un- 
common perfection  is  thought-reading.  He  is  always 
miles  away  from  sordid  reality,  mind,  soaring  ahead 
in  regions  of  blissful  penny  steamers  and  cream  tarts. 
A  learned  gentleman  speaks  to  him  of  some  abstract 
goodness-knows-what-I-mean  sort  of  idea  ;  and  a  week 
later,  the  stage  student  remembers  every  word  the  old 
gentleman  spoke.  Not  only  does  he  remember  every 
word,  but  it  also  turns  out  that  he  has  understood 
every  blessed  one  of  them ;  you  see,  while  his  mind 
seemed  to  be  wandering  in  ethereal  regions  ever  and 
ever  so  far  away,  it  really  was  concentrated  upon  the 
learned  gentleman's  thoughts  and  character,  which 
the  youth  read  like  a  book.  Myself,  I  am  not  a  bit 
like  that ;  I  am  pretty  often  puzzled  by  what  people 
mean  when  they  speak,  or  even  when  they  write  ; 
of  course,  in  books — learned  books,  mind — they  have 
a  graceful  habit  of  telling  you,  in  a  footnote,  that 
the  meaning  of  such  and  such  a  passage  is  obscure  ;  it 


240  RATHER  LIKE.... 

is  really  very  considerate  of  them,  but  (I  say  it  in  all 
modesty)  I  very  often  manage  to  gather  this  before 
I  read  the  footnote  at  all.  Well,  the  stage  student  does 
nothing  of  the  kind.  He  is  prepared  to  deny  the  very 
existence  of  any  such  thing  as  obscurity  ;  mind  you,  he 
may  have  heard  his  great-grandfather's  second  cousin 
hint  at  such  a  thing — but  even  if  it  did  happen  to  be 
extant  at  that  remote  period,  he  is  perfectly  sure  it 
must,  at  the  present  moment,  have  disappeared 
completely  from  the  face  of  the  earth ;  to  him,  ob- 
scurity, in  fact,  must  be  a  sort  of  pterodactyl  or 
paleosaurus  not  even  the  fossil  remains  of  which  have 
ever  crossed  his  path. 

Oh,  yes,  he  is  a  wonderful  fellow,  the  stage  student ! 


HENRY  JAMES  241 


LORD  JAMES,  pausing  for  a  moment  with  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  on  a  high-backed  chair,  had 
before  him  the  cosy  walls  of  the  breakfast 
room,  with  its  red  and  green  paper  and  lighter  grey 
hangings,  beautifully  panelled  in  Elizabethan  oak.  In 
the  middle  of  the  room  stood  the  table — all  spotless 
white  cloth,  dainty  china,  sparkling  cut  glass,  and 
shining  silver — all  the  gentle  morning  delicacies  of  an 
English  home.  An  ancient,  a  solid  elegance  pervaded 
the  chamber,  and  extended  into  the  view  through  the 
high  window  opening  upon  the  sunny  terrace  without  : 
sanded  walk,  balustraded  steps,  spraying  fountains — 
all  the  smiling  vastness  of  a  sunny  park,  with  its 
background  of  rippling  trees  and  spotless  sky.  Every 
detail  seemed  to  speak,  for  itself,  of  the  highest  quality 
tempered  by  taste  and  distinction. 

Such  was  the  outlook  mellowed  by  the  magician, 
Time  ;  but  the  frigid  man  who  stood  gazing  on  it 
evidently  belonged  to  no  such  charming  world  of  old 
English  beauty,  or  was  a  living  part  of  the  delicate 
surroundings — indeed,  he  was,  for  the  eye,  a  manifest 
counterpart  to  them  all.  Lord  James  was  blatantly 
15 


242  RATHER  LIKE.... 

modern,  and  certainly  nothing  gave  a  truer  aspect 
of  his  real  self  than  this  morning  atmosphere  of  a 
dainty  breakfast-room,  accentuating  the  negative 
relations  between  it  and  the  keener  instincts  apparent, 
to  the  student  of  thoughts,  in  his  trenchant  features. 

Young  he  was  no  longer,  but  years,  in  such  as  he, 
only  serve  to  impress  more  thoroughly  upon  the  body 
the  aspirations  of  the  temperament.  Clearly,  he  was  a 
man  with  full  confidence  in  himself,  and  used  to  having 
his  own  way  in  a  world  he  had  conquered  by  sheer 
force  of  will  and  cleverness.  He  might  have  ruled  by 
the  power  of  birth,  as  so  many  are  satisfied  to  do,  and 
remain  content  with  a  brilliant  and  graceful  stupidity  ; 
he  might  even  have  confessed,  in  a  moment  of  abandon, 
that  he  had  often  been  within  an  ace  of  exchanging 
his  cleverness  for  a  touch  of  old-time  stateliness — 
although  he  was  not  lacking  in  distinction,  and  nothing 
would  have  induced  one  to  mistake  him  for  an  adept 
of  millionairish  vulgarity.  Doubtless,  he  had  had  to 
struggle  ;  and  certainly,  his  rather  stumpy  fingers, 
poised  on  a  chair  back,  proclaimed  him  to  belong  to 
the  world  that  acts  and  thinks,  rather  than  to  the 
mundane  strata  that  merely  reaps  what  time  has 
sowed  for  its  especial  benefit. 

Slowly  the  chair  began  to  glide  along  the  carpeted 
floor,  its  movement  being  a  rectilinear  translation  in  a 
direction  perpendicular  to  the  snowy  edge  of  the 
breakfast  table  ;  under  the  skilful  guidance  of  Lord 
James'  chubby  hand,  the  muscles  of  which  might 
have  been  seen  to  bulge  in  a  well-harmonised  con- 
traction, the  motion  began,  very  slowly  at  first,  be- 
coming gently  accelerated  little  by  little.  At  the  same 
time,  the  light  in  Lord  James'  eye,  kinder  and  bolder 
at  once,  shone  upon  the  high  back  as  it  was  used  to 
shine  upon  some  fellow-financier  he  had  just  had  the 


HENRY  JAMES  243 

better  of  in  a  most  polite  discussion  that  might  have 
left  him  the  richer  by  several  thousands  of  pounds — 
thus  clearly  exhibiting  the  fundamental  relations 
between  the  commanding  intellect  and  the  accom- 
plished instrument.  His  lips  were  half  open,  as  if 
preparing  to  address  some  one  with  a  significant 
manner  that  he  might  have  had,  and  his  right  arm 
began  to  fold  itself  at  the  elbow,  as  though  taking  in  a 
graceful  curve  it  was  its  obvious  intention  of  assuming. 
Indeed,  his  whole  body  seemed,  for  an  instant,  to 
execute  the  charming  premises  of  a  very  slight  rota- 
tion round  a  horizontal  axis,  remaining  poised  in  an 
attitude  of  discriminating  expectance,  while  his  left 
boot,  slightly  pressed  against  the  chair's  foot-bar, 
accompanied  the  slow  movement  of  that  high-backed 
article  of  furniture. 

Gently,  very  gently,  the  translation  became  more 
accentuated,  and  suddenly  changed  into  a  twenty 
degree  rotation  round  a  vertical  axis,  the  foremost 
left  angle  of  the  seat  being  now  apparent  from  beneath 
the  white  place  of  the  snowy  table-cloth.  With  a 
sharpness  that  might  well  have  been  expected  from 
a  man  of  his  physique,  Lord  James  seemed  to  grasp 
the  exact  moment  for  steady  and  rapid  action  :  his 
fingers  suddenly  left  the  high  back  whereupon  they 
had  been  so  gracefully  resting ;  his  whole  body,  with  a 
litheness  that  was  evidently  the  fruit  of  a  lifelong 
practice,  seemed  to  prepare  for  a  gentle  leap  that  took 
place  before  one  had  time  to  notice  it  ...  The  chair, 
now  propelled  forwards  by  the  same  mascular  activity, 
though  from  different  regions,  slowly  settled  down 
once  more  in  rigid  immobility  before  the  table,  as 
though  eminently  glad,  in  the  innermost  recess  of  its 
antiquity,  that  Lord  James  was  now  sitting  down  to 
breakfast. 


244  RATHER  LIKE.... 


HENRY   NEWBOLT 

ADMIRAL  LIFE 

COME  !     What  are  ye  thinking  of,  sighing,  lads  ? 
Moping  o'er  child  or  wife  ? 
Not  one  of  ye  speak  of  dying,  lads  : 
We're  serving  Admiral  Life  ! 
He  knocks  us  about  from  wave  to  wave, 
He  calls  our  fathers  from  out  their  grave, 
He  dubs  the  strong  and  he  makes  the  brave — 
Come,  here's  to  Admiral  Life  ! 

In  days  that  were  peaceful,  ay,  and  kind, 

From  Cromwell  up  to  Fife, 
He  set  us  astir,  and  lay  to  wind, 

Did  good  Admiral  Life  ! 
He  gave  us  our  looms,  our  trade,  our  ore, 
He  taught  us  the  tricks  o'  the  old  seashore, 
He  blew  in  our  hearts  the  breath  of  yore — 

He  made  us,  did  Admiral  Life ! 

And  now,  if  the  clouds  should  burst  again, 

In  a  galloping,  seething  strife, 
He's  ready  to  quench  our  thirst  again, 

Is  true  old  Admiral  Life ! 


HENRY  NEWBOLT  245 

He'll  hoist  our  flag  and  he'll  swell  our  hearts, 
He'll  coach  us  again  for  a  thousand  parts, 
He'll  send  us  around  when  the  new  fun  starts, 
Will  fine  old  Admiral  Life  ! 

Come  !     Now  is  the  time  to  bump  your  glass : 

For  him  it  is  always  rife  ; 
So  fill  it  right  up,  and  dump  your  lass, 

And  drink  to  Admiral  Life  ! 
For  he's  a  man  to  our  own  accord, 
He's  the  only  master  our  souls  afford, 
He's  the  only  king  and  the  only  Lord — 

Yea,  here's  to  Admiral  Life  ! 


246  RATHER  LIKE.... 


R.   W.    SERVICE 

BUCK   UP! 

WHEN  you  don't  know  what  to  do,  when  you've 
got  a  fit  of  blues, 
And  the  world,   somehow  or  other,  goes 

all  wrong, 
Don't  forget  the  winning  game  is  the  one  where  first 

you  lose, 

If  you've  only  got  the  pluck  to  play  along  ! 
There's  no  earthly  bit  of  use  in  the  bending  of  your 

head, 

In  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  and  the  whine ; 
Buck  up,  laddie,  try  again — you'll  have  better  luck 

instead — 
For  the  very  worst  of  all  is  to  repine  ! 

Yes,  buck  up,  my  boy,  buck  up  for  all  you're  worth  ; 
You  be  sure  your  time  will  come ;    it's  up  to  you  ; 

But  whate'er  you  may  have  done, 

Mind,  it's  only  just  begun, 
Till  the  ultimate  success  is  clear  and  true  ! 


R.   W.   SERVICE  247 

When  the  field  is  deep  in  mud,  and  you've  just  received 

a  kick, 

And  the  goal's  a  far-off  spot  you  hardly  see, 
Rub  it  in  for  all  you're  worth,  serve  it  hot,  and  serve 

it  thick  : 

You're  the  man  to  score  a  point  and  join  the  spree  ; 
There's   the   half-back   charging   on — run,   you   fool, 

run,  though  you  fall — 
Now's  the  time  to  have  a  go — let  fly,  let  fly  : 
There  you  are  !     Buck  up,  my  lad,  it's  your  boot  has 

kicked  the  ball, 
And  the  keeper  at  the  goal  has  passed  it  by  ! 

Yes,  buck  up,  my  lad,  buck  up  for  all  you're  worth  ; 
You  be  sure  your  time  will  come  ;   it's  up  to  you ; 

But,  whatever  may  have  been, 

Play  the  ready  game,  the  keen, 
Till  the  ultimate  success  is  clear  and  true  ! 

When  the  office  doesn't  pay,  when  you're  hardly  flush 

in  cash, 

And  the  trades  and  competition  seem  unfair, 
That's  the  time  for  cool  endeavour,  that's  the  time  for 

grit  and  dash — 

Not  at  all  the  time  to  cry  and  tear  your  hair. 
Set  your  hand  to  decent  work  (there  is  always  some 

to  do, 

And  you'll  always  find  the  time  to  do  it  in), 
You  shall  not  go  under  yet,  if  you're  ready  not  to  rue, 
And  you're  bound  to  strike  your  mine  and  find 
your  tin. 

Yes,  buck  up,  old  pard,  buck  up  for  all  you're  worth  ; 
You  be  sure  your  time  will  come  ;   it's  up  to  you ; 

But  whatever  may  occur, 

Be  a  man,  and  not  a  cur, 
Till  the  ultimate  success  is  clear  and  true  1 


248  RATHER  LIKE.... 

When  the  final  voyage  comes,  when  you're  lying  sick 

in  bed, 

When  the  doctors  say  there's  nothing  left  to  hope, 
When  the  moments  dwindle  fast,  when  the  last,  last 

word  is  said, 

Turn  a  smiling  face  to  God — forget  to  mope. 
What's   the   good   of   bitter   thoughts,    when   you're 

leaving  earth  for  good — 
What's    the    good    of    crying    now  ?     Come,  drop 

those  sighs  ! 
No  !    You  just  stand  up  once  more,  just  as  when,  in 

life  you  stood — 
Meet  your  Maker  like  a  man,  with  open  eyes ! 

Yes,  buck  up,  old  man,  buck  up  for  all  you're  worth  ! 
You  be  sure  your  time  will  come  ;   it's  up  to  you  ; 

But   light  till  your  final  breath, 

Look  ahead,  and  straight  at  death, 
Till  the  ultimate  success  is  clear  and  true  ! 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  249 


JOHN   GALSWORTHY 

PUNISHMENT 
A  pky  in  one  Act 

(The  scene  is  the  shop  of  Messrs.  Will  Wisp  and  Son, 
on  an  April  morning.  The  shop  is  a  modern  drapery 
establishment,  furnished  with  an  oak  counter  with  the 
usual  shelves  at  the  back,  and  some  chairs  for  the  cus- 
tomers. A  wooden  carving  of  a  spaniel  is  the  only 
artistic  ornament  of  the  premises,  which  are  strictly 
utilitarian  in  their  decoration.  A  panelled  door  at 
the  back  leads  to  the  manager's  office,  and  another, 
on  the  left,  to  a  room  marked  "  private." 

The  managing  shop-walker,  Coalfather,  is  busy  behind 
a  desk,  while  an  assistant,  Timmers,  is  attending  to 
Marjorie  Beesworth,  a  prospective  customer.} 

Coalfather  (sotto  voce}  :  Two  -  and  -  twopence  -  half  - 
penny  and  one-and-three-farthings — oh,  damn 
these  sums  !  .  .  . 

Timmers  :    Red  crape,  you  said,  Madam  ? 

Marjorie :    Yes,  I  want  two  yards. 

Timmers :    I    really  don't  know    whether    we    have 
anything     in      that      line  .  .  .  Excuse     me     a 
moment  :    I'll  just  go  and  ask  the  manager. 
(He  goes  to  Coalf other's  desk}. 


250  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Marjorie  (who  takes  a  look  of  intense  worry)  :    What 

shall  I  do  if  they  haven't  got  any  ?     I  daren't 

take  it  black,  because  I  don't  want  him  to  think 

I'm  in  mourning  ;   and  yet,  he  must  know  there's 

some  change. 
Timmers  (coming  back  to  her)  :    Er  .  .  .  The  fact  is, 

we  have  just  run  out  of  red  crape,  madam  ;   but 

we  are  expecting  a  new  delivery,  and  if  you  could 

wait  a  day  or  two.  ...  or  we   could  send  it 

round  .  .  . 

(Cuivrand  enters  from  the  street.  He  is  a  shabby- 
looking  individual,  with  something  foreign  about  him.) 
Coalfather  (speaking  to  an  assistant  behind  the  scenes)  : 

Wilson,  just  come  along  here  a  minute ;    you're 

wanted. 
Cuivrand    (eagerly,    to    Marjorie — He    speaks    with    a 

foreign  lisp)  :    Ha  !  you  see  there,  Madame  !     I 

thought  you  had  entered  into  the  shop,  and  I  did 

not  mistake  myself. 
Marjorie  :   Why  did  you  follow  me  ? 

(Wilson,  the  junior  assistant,  has  come  in,  and  walks 
up  to  Cuivrand,  behind  the  counter.) 
Wilson :    Good  day,  sir.     What  can  we  do  for  you 

this  morning  ? 
Cuivrand :    Oh  ...  I  ...  er  ...  Je  n'ai  besoin 

de  rien.     I  came  in  for  Madame. 
Wilson :    Ah  ?      Yes  .  .  .  indeed,     indeed  .  .  .  Fine 

day,  to-day,  sir  ... 
Cuivrand :   Veree  fine,  my  friend,  veree  fine  .  .  .  (to 

Marjorie)  And  what  had  you  need  of,  madam  ? 
F£    A  new  costume  ? 
Marjorie :     No  ...  er  ...  I    wanted    some    stuff ; 

but  they  have  not  got  any. 
Cuivrand :    Not  got  any  ?     These  Anglais  know  not 

the  galanterie  .  .  .  (to  Timmers)  You  say  you  have 

no  stuff,  no  stuff  for  Madame  ? 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  251 

Timmers  :  I'm  sorry  to  ^ay  we  haven't — not  just  now, 
sir.  As* a  matter  of  fact,  we've  just  run  out  of 
our  stock  in  red  crape,  sir  ...  But  if  ... 

Cuivrand :  You  pigs  !  You  cannot  even  sell  what 
Madame  asks  ?  It  is  disgusting  ! 

Timmers :    'Ere,  I  say,  sir,  I  can't  stand  that ! 
(He  goes  to  confer  with  Coalfather.) 

Marjorie  (to  Cuivrand)  :  Oh  !  Don't  .  .  .  please  don't  ! 
.  .  .  Can't  you  see  they  are  doing  their  best, 
but  ... 

Cuivrand  :  They  are  camels  !  They  should  immediately 
excuse  themselves.  But  what  can  one  expect 
of  these  cochons  d' Anglais  ? 

Coalfather  (who  has  come  forward  from  behind  his 
desk,  and  has  been  staring  speechless  at  Cuivrand 
during  this  outburst]  :  Look  'ere,  you  ought  to 
be  ashamed  o'  yourself,  coming  inside  a  respect- 
able drapery  emporium,  and  kicking  up  a  silly 
row  like  that ! 

Cuivrand  ;  'E  calls  it  "  kicking  up  a  silly  row  !  "  You 
can't  understand  the  feelings  of  un  homme  du 
monde  ! 

Coalfather :    Stop  your  jaw,  you  untidy  foreigner  ! 

Cuivrand  :  Yes,  I  am  a  foreigner,  it  is  true.  And  when 
I  see  'ow  the  Anglais  treat  a  woman,  I  am  glad  not 
to  be  one  of  you  !  You  understand  nothing  !  You 
are  only  a  stupid  merchant,  a  pig  without  intelli- 
gence, an  artless  camel ! 

Coalfather :  That'll  do !  Here,  out  you  go  1  ... 
Timmers,  you  chuck  him  out. 

Marjorie  :   Oh,  my  God  ! 

Cuivrand :  No,  they  shall  not  chuck  me  out,  those 
brutes  !  I  will  remain  'ere  .  .  .  J'y  suis,  j'y 
reste.  I  don't  abandon  a  woman  :  I  'ave  never 
'urt  a  woman,  and  I  ... 


252  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Coal  father :  Chuck  it,  I  say  !  Who  said  anything 
about  hurting  a  woman  ?  Get  out  of  this,  you 
fathead  ! 

Cuivrand  :  No  !  You  shall  not  expulse  me  :  I  defend 
it  !  I  am  not  veree  strong,  but  I  know  to  fight. 
I  ! 

(Marjorie  turns   a  pleading  face  towards  him,  but 
he  mistakes  her  expression  for  one  of  tenderness,  takes 
her  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her.} 
Coalfather  :   Well,  I  never  ! 

(At  the  same  instant  Tom  Wisp,  the  junior  partner, 
comes  out  of  the  door  marked  "  private,"  and  is  taken 
aback  at  the  unusual  scene.} 
Tom  :   What  on  earth's  the  matter,  Coalfather,  what 

does  all  this  mean  ? 
Coalfather :    I  reaUy  don't  know,  sir.     It's  this  'ere 

foreigner  who's  making  a  ass  of  himself,  and 

Tom  :  Now,  look  here,  sir,  we  really  can't  allow  this 
...  er  ...  this  to  occur  in  our  establishment. 
It's  not  decent.  Anyone  might  come  in  this 
very  minute. 

Cuivrand :    Ha  !   You  are  the  patron  ?    Well,  allow 
me  to  tell  you  that  your  shop  is  a  box,  yes — une 
sale  boUe  / 
Tom :    Really,  sir,  if  you  have  nothing  else  to  say,  I 

must  request  you  to  leave  the  premises. 
Cuivrand :    I  leave  when  I  like.     But  you  think  you 
can  insult  a  'armless  woman  without  defence  ? 
You  are  not  a  gentleman,  Monsieur  ! 

Tom  :   Who's  been  insulting  anybody  ?     I  say 

(Will    Wisp,    senior,    attracted    by    the    commotion, 
comes  out  of  the  door  marked  "  Private.") 
Wisp  :   What's  all  this,  hey  ? 

Coalfather :   There  was  a  party  came  in  here  to  order 
some  red  crape,  sir,  and  we  said  we'd  oblige  as 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY  253 

soon  as  possible.     And  then  this  silly  foreigner 
comes  in  and  kicks  up  no  end  of  a  row  .  .  . 

Cuivrand :  Yes,  Monsieur,  I  defend  'armless  women, 
and  I  show  you  the  true  spirit  of  chivalry. 

Wisp  :  Chivalry  be  blowed  !  I  want  to  know  what 
you  came  in  here  for  ! 

Cuivrand  :  I  came  for  Madame.    I  love  'er  !   I  love  'er 

veree  much ! 
(He  takes  her  in  his  arms  again,  and  kisses  her.) 

Tom  :    It's  too  bad  !     And  the  second  time,  too  ! 

Wisp  :  We  can't  allow  that  in  here  .  .  .  Wilson,  just 
go  and  call  in  the  constable  of  the  beat. 

Wilson  :   Yes,  sir.     (He  goes  out  into  the  street.) 

Marjorie  :  Oh,  dear  !     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Cuivrand  :  Fear  not,  Madame.  They  shall  do  you  no 
'arm.  I  am  'ere  to  defend  you.  I  see  now  the 
truth  of  this  nation,  and  shall  not  lack  the  courage 
to  tell  them  what  I  think  of  them,  (to  Wisp)  : 
Yes,  Monsieur,  you  are  a  nation  that  comprehends 
not  the  beauty  of  the  life  ;  the  life  it  was  not  made 
to  refuse  stuff  to  a  'armless  woman  ;  the  life  it 
was  made  to  serve  'er  !  But  you  are  only  pigs, 
you  Insulars  ! 
(Just  at  this  moment,  Wilson  returns,  bringing  in  a 

police-constable  behind  him  :    he  has  heard  Cuivrand' 's 

last  words.) 

Policeman :  'Ere,  you  furriner !  You  can't  insult 
us  like  that !  It's  my  duty  to  take  you  in 
charge. 

Cuivrand  :  What  ?  Arrest  me — me,  an  innocent  and 
chivalrous  man  ?  You  coward  ! 

Policeman :  Stop  your  jaw,  I  say !  You're  my 
prisoner.  And  anything  you  say  will  be  used  as 
evidence  against  you. 


254  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Cuivrand  :   Me  !     Arrest  me  ?     No,  never  ! 

(Before  anybody  can  stop  him,  he  flies  wildly  into 
the  counter  ;  the  wooden  spaniel  falls  heavily  on  top  of 
him,  and  he  falls  down,  motionless.} 
Wisp  :  Well.  I  say  ! 

Policeman :   He's  done  it  this  time,  an'  no  mistake. 
Tom:  What!     Dead? 
Policeman  :   Dead  as  a  doormat,  yes,  sir. 
Coalfather  :   Dear,  dear  ! 

Marjorie  :  That's  what  comes  of  wanting  to  arrest  and 
to  punish  a  chivalrous  man  !     Oh,  my  God,  what 
shall  I  do  ? 
Coalfather  :   Dear,  dear  ! 

(Marjorie  stands  petrified  and  looks  wildly  at  him.} 
The  curtain  falls. 


HALL  CAINE  255 


HALL   CAINE 

THE  SINNER 


SUSAN  O'MURPHY,  who  lived  with  her  aged 
father  in  a  tiny  cottage  at  the  far  end  of  Bally- 
whack,  was  by  common  judgment  a  gawk — a 
bright-eyed,  broad-tongued,  comely  -  looking  gawk. 
Nobody  in  the  little  village  had  ever  been  known  to 
utter  any  precise  accusation  against  her — no,  not  even 
Pink  Sam,  landlord  of  the  "  Manx  Pranks,"  who  held 
that  sin  need  not  be  seen  to  be  proven,  on  the  strength 
of  the  text  that  says  :  "  Hear,  ye  deaf,  and  look,  ye 
blind,  that  ye  may  see."  Yet  old  Red  Bill,  her  father, 
did  no  work  of  any  kind,  and  had  even  ceased  to  be 
noted  as  the  most  shameless  poacher  in  the  village. 

Susan's  was  a  queer  cottage.  Her  mother,  now 
dead,  had  been  famed  as  a  beauty  in  her  day,  and 
Susan,  as  a  child,  had  her  black  hair  and  face  as  brown 
as  a  hot-cross  bun.  At  school,  the  other  children 
had  laughed  at  her,  and  called  her  "  darkie,"  and 
many  had  been  the  battles  fought  on  her  account  by 
some  of  her  youthful  admirers,  especially  Pompey 
Geenkrey,  whom  report  named  as  the  bastard  son  of 


256  RATHER  LIKE.... 

the  Deemster's  brother.  She  had  been  used  to  run 
about  among  the  gorse  and  damp  scraa  soil,  with 
hardly  any  boots  or  stockings ;  but  the  sun,  instead 
of  burning  her  a  darker  brown,  had  made  her  into 
a  strapping  girl,  easy-going  and  good-tempered,  to 
whom  Pink  Sam  was  wont  to  apply  the  text :  "  But 
they  made  light  of  it  and  went  their  ways."  Like 
the  other  Ballywhack  children,  she  had  been  to  school, 
off  and  on,  for  a  length  of  time  calculated  to  give  her 
fairly  rough  notions  of  spelling,  sufficient,  at  all  events, 
to  enable  her  to  read  the  paper  to  her  father  of  an 
evening.  Indeed,  she  grew  to  be  what  the  simple 
Manx  folk  regarded  as  a  "  scholard,"  though  where 
the  title  came  from  no  one  exactly  could  say.  She 
was,  however,  dainty  enough  in  her  pink  sun-bonnet, 
red  stockings  and  green  shoes,  and  Pompey  was  a 
frequent  visitor  to  the  tumble-down  cottage,  where 
he  met  with  many  a  sound  rebuff  from  old  Red  Bill, 
her  father. 

"  Look  here,"  he  would  say  to  the  young  fisherman, 
"  I  don't  want  none  of  your  fooling  round  my  Susan, 
by  Gough  !  'S  long  as  I'm  here,  I'll  have  none  o'  the 
likes  of  you  !  " 

'  You're  reg'lar  rough  on  me,  Mr.  O'Murphy," 
he  replied.  "  What  I  says  is  why  shouldn't  I  be 
a  good  husband  to  your  girl,  and  a  good  son  to 
yoursel'  ?  " 

"  Husband,  indeed  !  "  grunted  the  old  man.  "  A 
clane  youngster  like  you,  without  even  a  pound  to  call 
his  own  !  And  what  d'you  expect  to  live  on,  I'd  like 
to  know  ?  It's  clane  mad  you  are,  and  those  ones 
as  are  more  wiser  than  you'll  ever  be  have  their  duty 
to  do  :  so  off  you  go  !  " 

After  which  direct  speech  the  disconsolate  wooer 
retreated  to  the  "  Manx  Pranks,"  where  Pink  Sam 


HALL  CAINE  257 

delivered  a  warning  lecture  on  the  text :  "  But  the 
people  are  many  ..." 

"  Master  Geenkrey,  'tis  labouring  in  vain  you  are  ! 
why  not  leave  the  lass  alone,  an'  her  being  what  she  is, 
too  ?  " 

"  See  you  here,  Pink  Sam,"  retorted  the  young  man, 
"  I'll  have  none  o'  your  calling  her  no  names  !  She's 
a  dacent  girl,  seeing  as  I'm  willing  to  take  her  as  my 
wife,  by  Gough  !  It's  only  her  father  who's  a  ..." 

"  Steady,  boy  veen,  steady  !  "  answered  the  pub- 
lican. "  The  Lord  has  said:  'Behold,  I,  even  I,  will 
both  search  my  sheep  and  seek  them  out.'  You  needn't 
waste  no  words  on  him — it's  her  as  wants  looking 
after." 

"  What  d'ye  mane  ?  "  enquired  the  young  fisher- 
man. 

"  I  mane  just  what  I  say,  Master  Pompey.  I  seen 
Susan  in  church  ever  so  many  Sundays  running,  an' 
if  ever  she  was  a  trollop  before — which  I  wouldn't 
swear  to,  mind — I'm  middlin'  sure  she's  nothing  o' 
the  kind  now.  She's  minding  the  texes,  my  boy, 
the  texes  that  say  :  '  Blessed  is  the  man  that  trusteth 
in  the  Lord  ' — ay,  and  the  woman,  too,  you  may  be 
sartin  !  " 

"  Ye  don't  say  so  !  "  ejaculated  Pompey.  "  I've 
been  having  my  eye  on  t'young  parzon,  an'  I  do  suppose 
as  he's  the  reason  for  why  Red  Bill'll  have  none 
of  me  !  " 

'  T  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  was  not  far  wrong,  boy 
veen,"  said  Pink  Sam.  "  Well,  it'ud  be  a  very  good 
thing  for  the  girl,  'speshully  if  she  loves  him." 

"  Love  ?     And  do  you  think  he'd  be  fool  enough 

to  marry  a  lass  like   Susan  ?     I  daresay  she  could 

make    'im   a   dacent   cup   o'    tay — but   she   couldn't 

even  understand  one  of  his  sermons,  to  say  nothing  of 

16 


258  RATHER  LIKE.... 

helping  him  make  them,  as  old  Mrs.  Puttey  used  to 
do  for  the  Rector  !  " 

"  I  wouldn't  be  so  sure  of  that,  Master  Geenkrey," 
replied  the  publican.  "  Susan's  a  good  middlin' 
scholard,  an'  many's  the  time  as  I've  seen  'er  with  a 
fat  book  in  'er  hand — a  book  as  I  understand  nothin' 
about,  mind  you,  and  full  o'  Latin  and  French  texes 
...  I  knows  all  about  'er  book,  'cause  I  happened  to 
look  at  it  once,  when  she'd  left  it  on  a  bench  outside  ; 
an'  she's  been  studyin'  'ard  as  'ard  can  be.  Oh,  yes, 
I  can  tell  you,  an'  no  mistake  ...  'He  that  hath 
ears  to  hear,  let  him  hear.' ' 

Pompey  felt  a  little  click  of  frightened  sorrow  in 
his  heart  of  hearts,  like  a  cuckoo  hatched  in  a  sparrow's 
nest.  He  felt  the  girl  he  loved  was  escaping  him 
now  towards  another.  Ah !  The  tearful,  bitter 
thought  !  .  .  .  She  was  making  herself  worthy  of 
another,  higher  placed  than  he,  and  he  was  to  lose  her 
after  all !  ...  What  a  dreadful  thing  it  was  to  be  a 
man  !  What  a  tragic  thing  !  What  a  horrible  and  vile 
thing  !  To  be  played  with  and  fooled  by  the  first 
hussy  that  comes  along !  That  was  man's  lot.  Inter- 
est !  Cant !  Ambition  !  Those  were  the  motives 
that  made  woman  act !  To  be  nothing,  to  be  con- 
quered, to  be  trampled  upon  ! 

Pompey  fled  to  his  little  bare  attic  that  night,  and 
cried  for  the  shame  of  it.  Poor  Pompey  !  Poor 
Pompey  !  Poor  Pompey  ! 

II 

Susan  was  in  her  little  bedroom  on  a  glorious 
summer  day,  and  it  was  not  more  than  three  o'clock. 
Eustace  Smallpox,  the  young  parson,  had  promised 
to  come  and  fetch  her  at  four,  and  they  were  to  be 


HALL  CAINE  259 

married  in  a  week.  He  had  often  doubted  the  wisdom 
of  this  course,  but  he  loved  her  dearly,  and  since  he 
had  heard  her  pronounce  the  words  Dominus  Vobis- 
cum,  he  knew  Susan  was  worthy  of  him,  in  spite  of 
her  lowly  birth  and  indifferent  upbringing  ;  he  had 
experienced  his  moment  of  triumph — but  little  did 
he  know  the  battle  that  \vas  raging  in  the  girl's  heart. 

She  flung  herself  down  upon  her  little  bed,  and 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  What  mattered  it  to  her 
that  the  village  gossip  had  always  been  against  her — 
to  her  who  had  never  been  base  in  her  own  heart  ? 
Yesterday  only,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  had 
realised  the  depth  of  her  passion,  when  Eustace  had 
spoken  to  her  at  last,  and  she  had  yielded  to  his 
earnest  entreaties. 

"  Oh  Gough  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  fervid  prayer, 
"  what  have  I  done  !  Oh,  save  me,  Lord  !  " 

She  was  conscious  of  her  frailty,  as  a  woman 
always  is  when  she  falls  from  honour  ;  yet  she  knew 
she  was  not  the  victim  of  a  hurried  impulse,  but  the 
slave,  of  an  everlasting  and  pathetic  ideal — the  tender, 
merciful,  deep-rooted  belief  that  blood  is  thicker  than 
water.  And  she  had  given  herself  whole-heartedly 
and  freely,  as  a  true  woman  does — and  she  prayed 
for  forgiveness. 

Then  she  dried  her  eyes,  and  chose  a  pretty  frock 
for  her  lover's  visit.  This  she  took  from  a  home-made 
niche  contrived  out  of  a  shelf  in  front  of  which  a 
curtain  was  hung  on  a  piece  of  string.  It  was  a 
simple  green  print  skirt,  with  a  bodice  of  the  same 
material,  like  waves  on  a  purple  sea.  She  took  a  pink 
bonnet  to  match,  and  white  shoes  and  stockings  that 
brought  out  the  burly  elegance  of  her  ankles  and  the 
ample  smallness  of  her  feet.  All  these  articles  she  laid 
upon  her  bed,  looked  at  them  intently  with  a  wistful, 


26o  RATHER  LIKE.... 

fascinated  smile  ;  then  she  took  up  each  of  them  in 
turn,  poised  them  in  front  of  her  smiling  eyes,  and  put 
them  on,  to  emerge  as  a  bonny  Manx  lass,  aglow  with 
tender  years  and  bounding  blood. 

Eustace  met  her  outside  the  little  cottage. 

"  Susan  !  "  he  softly  cried  ;  and  the  next  instant 
she  was  in  his  arms. 

"  I  love  you,  dear  !  "  she  exclaimed,  nestling  her 
beautiful  face  against  his  clerical  waistcoat. 

Something,  however,  in  his  fervid  gaze,  arrested 
her  attention,  and  her  smile  lost  its  freshness. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Eustace  ?  Something  is 
troubling  you  !  .  .  .  Tell  me  !  " 

"  Nothing,  my  darling — nothing  important  .  .  . 
Only  that  I  must  leave  you  for  a  short  time  ..." 

"  Leave  me,  Eustace,  leave  me  ?  Surely  you  do  not 
mean  it !  Domine,  ora  pro  nobis !  It  cannot  be 
true  !  " 

"  Alas,  too  true,  my  dear  one,  too  true  !  But  don't 
think  I  shall  ever  forget  you  !  I  shall  always  remem- 
ber your  sweet  love,  always  !  And  in  my  old  days  it 
will  be  something  beautiful  to  look  back  upon.  ..." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  look  back  upon  it !  I  want 
you  to  look  upon  it  now,  and  to  look  at  me  \  I  love 
you,  Eustace  !  I  love  you,  and  you  are  mine  !  Nothing 
can  divide  us  now  !  " 

"  Don't  say  that,  Susan  !  The  sea  is  wide  and 
the  world  is  large,  the  voice  of  love  is  sweet,  but  Duty 
is  stern  !  " 

"  Duty  ?  What  is  Duty  ?  Your  duty  is  here, 
Eustace,  ever  at  my  side  !  " 

"  Susan,  don't  look  at  me  like  that !  Don't !  I 
cannot  bear  it !  " 

"  I  will !  I  am  yours,  dear,  and  you  are  mine  ! 
Kiss  me  !  Say  you  won't  go  ! " 


HALL  CAINE  261 

She  clung  to  him  desperately,  and  tears  were  in 
both  their  eyes. 

"  I  love  you  too,  dear,"  he  moaned,  "  but — oh, 
how  pitiless  is  the  call  of  duty  !  " 

"  But  why  must  you  leave  me — now  ?     Why  ?  " 

"  Dearest,  you  cannot  understand  ...  I  owe  a 
friend  half-a-crown,  and  I  know  something  terrible 
will  happen  if  he  does  not  get  the  money  within  three 
days  ...  I  dare  not  send  it  by  post :  it  might  get 
lost.  No  !  I  must  go  to  London  myself  ...  I  leave 
for  Douglas  to-night  .  .  .  And  I  shall  not  forget  you, 
my  dear.  The  memory  of  our  love  will  ever  bind  me 
to  you  !  " 

"  I  want  you  to  remain  !  I  want  you  !  Eustace, 
don't  go  to  London  !  " 

"  I  must,  dear,  I  must  ...  Be  brave — I  shall 
soon  be  back  !  " 

"  No  !  Don't  leave  me  !  I  love  you  !  Oh,  how 
I  love  you  !  " 

She  was  fighting  for  her  life,  and  she  knew  it.  But 
he  slowly  disengaged  himself  from  her  embrace. 

"  My  dear,  I  must  .  .  .  Dire  is  the  necessity  ! 
God  Himself  would  never  pardon  me  if  I  left  my  friend 
in  the  lurch.  He  knows  it  is  hard  enough  for  me  as  it 
is  :  you  must  be  brave  !  " 

She  sank  on  her  knees  upon  the  gorse,  sobbing 
silently,  while  he  slowly  disappeared  behind  the 
cottage  .  .  .  Would  God  have  no  pity  on  her  after 
all? 


Ill 


Several  weeks  passed,  and  the  parson  did  not  come 
back.  The  loneliness  was  killing  her.  As  time  wore 
on,  she  saw  more  and  more  of  Pompey,  and  his  rough 


262  RATHER  LIKE.... 

words  of  consolation  made  the  red  riot  of  her  right- 
eousness run  rabid  in  her  heart.  And  the  climax 
was  reached  when  she  became  conscious  that  she  was 
about  to  become  a  mother.  And  a  terrible  fear  began 
to  possess  her  :  would  the  child  that  was  born  to  her 
be  a  boy,  like  his  father,  or  a  girl,  like  herself  ? 

The  fact  that  she  was  unmarried  mattered  little 
to  her  at  first,  but  the  horror  of  the  situation  began  to 
dawn  upon  her  after  a  few  days.  And  she  was  the 
more  sorry  when  Pompey,  plucking  courage,  deliber- 
ately asked  her,  one  evening,  to  be  his  wife. 

"  You  see,  Susan,"  he  said  in  his  rough  Manx  way, 
"  I  only  mane  good  to  you.  I  know  as  I  don't  know 
much,  and  can't  even  say  my  everin'  prayers  in  Latin, 
same  as  you.  And  I've  not  got  much  money,  neither. 
But  Pink  Sam  says  as  the  rich  man  shall  lie  down,  but 
he  shall  not  be  gathered  :  he  openeth  his  eyes,  and 
he  is  not  ...  So,  you  see,  I  can  open  mine,  and  see 
you — and  that'll  be  quite  enough  for  a  simple  fellow 
like  me." 

"  Don't,  Pompey,  don't  !  You  cannot  under- 
stand !  "  In  her  secret  heart  she  was  fighting  against 
the  temptation  to  let  this  man  give  her  his  name 
and  her  child  a  father.  But  what  a  terrible  sin  she 
would  be  committing  !  Would  God  ever  pardon 
such  a  trespass  ? 

Pompey  Geenkrey,  however,  had  a  heart  of  gold 
under  his  coarse  fisherman's  clothes  ;  and  though  he 
could  not  imagine  the  torture  she  was  suffering,  he 
guessed  the  pain  she  must  be  feeling. 

"  Don't  cry,  Susan,  don't  cry,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  'Tis  the  young  parzon  ye're  wanting,  I  know — 'tis 
not  mesel',  you  can't  decave  me  .  .  Well,  I'll  fetch 
him  back  for  you,  never  you  fear — I'll  fetch  him 
back ! " 


HALL  CAINE  263 

The  generosity  of  the  Manxman  left  her  aghast ; 
his  words  were  wondrous  solemn  and  terribly  un- 
expected, but  thsy  brought  an  immense  relief  to  her 
overburdened  heart. 

"  Oh,  Pompey  !  "  she  muttered,  amid  her  tears. 
And  the  young  man  rushed  to  his  fishing-smack  and 
set  out  on  his  chivalrous  errand. 

That  night  Susan  flung  herself  upon  her  little  bed 
with  something  like  relief  in  her  heavy  heart.  Ah, 
to-night !  But  what  would  to-morrow  bring  ?  How 
could  she  live  with  such  thoughts  swelling  in  her 
breast  ?  How  could  she  sleep  ?  How  could  she 
remain  awake  ?  Susan  !  Eustace !  Pompey !  To- 
morrow !  Oh,  God  !  Oh,  God  ! 

IV 

Three  day.s  later,  Pompey  once  more  stood  in 
front  of  the  little  cottage,  his  arms  linked  with  that 
of  the  young  parson,  who  looked  mighty  pale  and 
wondrous  shattered.  Their  steps  did  not  make 
much  noise  on  the  gravel,  but  Susan  came  running 
out  of  the  honeysuckle-covered  door  to  meet  them. 
She  uttered  a  little  wild  click  of  frightened  joy,  and 
rushed  towards  Eustace. 

"  At  last !  "  she  gasped. 

"  Yes,  I  have  come  back  to  you,  my  darling,"  he 
made  answer.  "  But  I  am  not  the  righteous  man  I 
was I  ..." 

"  Never  mind,  Eustace,"  said  Susan.  "  Nothing 
at  all  matters,  except  that  I  love  you  !  " 

"  No,  dear,  nothing  matters — but  my  soul — and 
that  belongs  to  God  !  He  will  help  me  in  this  sweet 
hour,  for  He  knows  I  am  no"  yet  bad  to  the  core  ! 
'  Lift  up  thine  eyes  round  about,  and  behold  '  :  I  have 


264  RATHER  LIKE.... 

a  public  confession  to  make,  and  while  Pompey  is 
here  .  .  ." 

"  Why,  he  is  gone !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  looking 
round.  "  The  dear  kind,  fellow  has  left  us  alone." 

"  Well,  my  confession  shall  be  none  the  less  public, 
darling :  the  birds,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  stones, 
and  the  very  earth,  shall  know  my  sin !  .  .  .  When  I 
left  you  I  thought  ..." 

And  he  would  have  unburdened  his  heavy  soul  for 
all  the  wide  world  to  hear.  This  was  the  hour  of 
his  redemption,  his  sin  confessed  in  all  but  deed,  when 
his  conscience  was  clean  before  him,  when  the  world 
was  ready  for  his  acknowledgment,  with  the  hand  of 
the  fallen  woman  that  loved  him  in  his.  He  stood 
there  ready  to  face  any  odds  that  might  befall  him. 

And  she  ?  She  shut  his  mouth  with  a  fiery  kiss, 
and  he  knew,  as  the  sun  blinked  through  the  jewels 
of  his  tears,  that  the  whole  future  was  before  them 
both,  to  atone  and  to  love. 


MARIE  CORELLI  265 


MARIE   CORELLI 

THE  DOUBLE  SOUL 

NOISE — shrieks  and  rumours,  and  endless  bustle  ! 
Noise — and  the  ever-moving  crowd  went  ever 
on  and  on,  amid  the  throb  of  the  fair!  The 
place  was  full  of  people  and  booths — people  arrayed 
in  their  Sunday-best,  booths  ostentatiously  decorated 
with  scarlet  and  gilt  lettering — booths  sending  forth 
their  torrents  of  raging  harmony,  while  the  thud  of 
a  distant  merry-go-round,  under  the  lustrous  blue  of 
the  skies,  spreading  upwards — heavenwards— was  like 
the  heart-beating  of  the  fair's  immense  and  dazzling 
soul.  Here  was  Life — Life  struggling  forth  in  sound, 
in  colour,  and  in  movement — Life  bursting  out  of  the 
ever-brilliant  shell  of  Time,  little  heeding  Death,  that 
chaos  of  ultimate  darkness — Life,  a  seething,  raging 
orgy  of  unadulterated  beauty  and  waning  youth,  with 
never  a  thought  for  good  or  evil !  The  perpetual  buzz 
of  sham  activity  was  as  though  the  trump  of  Resur- 
rection had  sounded,  and  all  this  feverish  noise — this 
strange  bustle — was  the  Flaming  sword  upon  the 
volcano  of  seething  passions,  the  pit  of  lurking  en- 
deavour, which  Man  calls  his  Soul ! 


266  RATHER  LIKE.... 

The  crowd  was  less  dense  (i),  perhaps,  in  front  of 
a  poorly  illuminated  stall — a  shabby,  faded  booth 
that  lacked  the  brilliant  lustre  and  those  sort  of 
qualities  that  attract  instant  attention — immediate 
notice — from  those  who  might  otherwise  pass  away 
into  oblivion.  The  letters  that  had  once  been  gilt 
still  spelt,  through  the  dwindling  sands  of  Time  and 
Space,  the  words  of  old  :  "  Tcmpus  Fugit  "  ;  that 
was  all ;  no  vain  and  boasting  assertion  of  unrevealed 
treasures — of  marvellous,  hidden  things — of  surrepti- 
tious wonders — that  were  to  be  disclosed  within  for 
a  beggar's  fee  ...  And  the  crowd,  like  a  blind, 
soulless  creature,  like  those  sort  of  evanescent  four- 
wheelers  that  simply  follow  their  unintelligent  and 
wholly  unreligious  leader — the  crowd  barely  lingered 
for  an  instant,  uninterested,  unattracted — and  went 
on  to  more  opulent  and  soul-distressing  shows. 

A  girl  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  poor  little  booth — 
a  girl  who,  at  the  first  glance,  had  belonged  to  those 
sort  of  people  who  are  termed  "  well-to-do  "  before 
they  come  down  in  life — people  who  cultivate  their 
pocket  before  they  think  of  their  soul — and  for  whom 
a  thousand-pound  monument  in  the  cemetery  after 
an  earth-burial  according  to  the  rites  (2)  of  their 
own  particular  religion,  be  it  Lutheran  or  Catholic,  is 
the  acme  of  respectability.  This  girl,  my  heroine, 
whose  name  was  written  up  above  her  on  the  faded 
velvet  lintel,  looked  haggard  and  worn  among  the 
flare  of  the  myriad  lamps — the  flare  that  seemed  to 
grow  less  and  less  as  the  shadow  of  her  preoccupation 
deepened  more  and  more  ;  she  smiled  faintly,  and 

(1)  The  word  is  taken  in  its  etymological,  rather  than  its  colloquial, 

sense,  though  the  latter   would  be   quite  correct. — (Note  by 
Augastus  Meddlesome,  M.A.) 

(2)  The  authoress   no   doubt   meant    "  the    wrongs." — (Note    by 

Augustus  Meddlesome,  M.A.) 


MARIE  CORELLI  267 

looking  straight  at  the  dwindling  crowd,  the  whole 
fair  was  impregnated  with  her  latent  sorrow. 

One  man,  however,  did  not  turn  away — a  man  of 
large  stature,  with  shaggy  hair  and  a  lean,  florid  face 
— a  man  of  thought  rather  than  action.  He  stepped 
out  from  the  mass  of  mere  pleasure-seekers,  and  came 
up  to  the  faded  booth. 

"  Do  you  tell  fortunes  ?  "  he  said  ;  and  forthwith 
walked  up  the  rickety  steps. 

She  was  silent  for  an  instant,  and  her  eyes  lit  up 
with  an  imperial  smile — imperial,  because  past  the 
sway  of  usual  human  atmosphere  ;  then  she  languidly 
answered : 

"  To  those  who  believe — those  who  have  the 
Faith." 

"  It  must  be  hard  work,"  he  replied,  "  come,  tell 
me  what  I  may  expect." 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  her  inspection — the 
beautiful,  true,  untamed  gaze  of  a  steadfast  eye  ; 
and  her  answer  came  slowly — a  deep  answer  fresh 
from  the  soul. 

"  You  are  learned  in  the  ways  of  men.  What  can 
I  tell  you  that  you  do  not  know  already  ?  I  would 
not  dare  to  reveal  your  past — and  your  future  is  as 
clear  as  crystal." 

"  Come,  Miss  Fugit,"  he  said  in  a  soft,  musical 
voice,  "  I  see  you  judge  me  right.  But  if  you  will  not 
tell  me  what  is  before  me,  shall  not  I  forecast  what  is 
in  store  for  you  ?  " 

His  cold,  flaming  eyes  were  now  full  upon  hers, 
and  she  seemed  to  resent  his  gaze — a  gaze  that  seemed 
charged  with  a  weird  charm — a  gaze  that  hovered 
on  the  pinions  of  immortality.  Soon,  however,  she 
yielded  to  his  fervid  depth  of  mastery,  and  he  slowly 
proceeded. 


268  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  My  name  is  Eugene  Dratoff,  and  I  have  con- 
quered Matter !  Soon,  very  soon,  there  shall  arise 
through  the  miracle  of  Science  a  better,  a  higher 
Manhood  and  Womanhood  upon  this  earth !  As 
we  see  it  now,  thousands  are  unhappy,  millions  are 
miserable.  They  seek — what  ?  Success  !  And  what 
is  success  ?  False  hypocrisy  !  Stupid  lie  !  ...  There 
is  but  one  Success — different  to  all  petty  grievances 
and  foul  triumphs — the  Success  that  gives  us  the 
knowledge  of  the  Us  we  dream  of  as  rising  in  the  shape 
of  a  soul  from  our  dead  body  !  " 

Now  she  knew !  She  was  all  a-tremble  as  he 
continued,  his  eyes  flashing  in  the  darkness  that  had 
now  grown  around  them. 

"  Yes  !  Even  you,  who  were  an  acrobat  in  former 
days,  Miss  Fugit,  shall  pass  to  a  better  state  through 
the  higher  workings  of  Science.  Come  !  Look  at 
this  !  " 

He  took  a  long  tube  from  the  inner  pocket  of  his 
coat,  and  placed  the  shining  metal  before  her  careworn 
eyes.  Suddenly  he  pressed  a  hidden  spring — and  the 
whir  of  machinery  fell  upon  her  pearl-like  ears,  while 
she  listened  to  his  inspired  lecture. 

"  Life  is  Movement ;  Movement  is  Life.  What- 
ever moves  cannot  be  dead  :  that  is  the  great  principle 
of  the  world — of  this — and  of  the  Other.  Wherever 
some  reigning  Spirit — some  Divine  Being — causes 
motion  to  animate  the  stark  and  dreary  form  of 
Matter,  there  begins  Life — there  is  Life.  Stillness  is 
Death  ;  Death  is  the  end  of  Movement.  But  not  the 
ultimate  end !  The  ultimate  end  of  Movement  is 
more  Movement — Movement  on  a  higher,  grander 
level  than  before — Movement  such  as  we  poor  mortals 
could  not  even  conceive,  if  the  keen  eye  of  Science 
had  not  been  given  to  aid  our  powerless  microscopes 


MARIE  CORELLI  269 

.  .  .  Here,  in  this  tube,  is  Motion — do  you  hear  it  ? 
Each  revolution  of  the  mechanism  ordained  by  Science 
brings  the  seer  nearer  to  that  ultimate  Movement 
which  is  the  true  Life  ;  it  looses  the  Soul  from  the 
vulgar  grip  of  the  gruesome  Body  !  it  purifies  the 
Spirit  from  the  revolting  supremacy  of  Matter  !  Look  ! 
What  do  you  see  ?  " 

Hs  thrust  the  end  of  the  tube  towards  Tempus' 
fugitive  eye,  and  she  sprang  up  with  an  involuntary 
exclamation. 

"  How  glorious  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  why,  it  seems  full 
of  Light  and  Heat  !  " 

"  It  is  full  of  Light  and  Heat,"  he  replied.  "  Light 
and  Heat  are  but  forms  of  Movement — and  I  have 
condensed  them  into  my  tube  in  such  a  manner  as  you 
see.  To  look  at  them  as  you  are  doing  now  is  to  move 
— it  is  to  live  !  .  .  .  And  you  know  Heat,"  he  went  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tempus,  "  I  used  to  be  a  fire-eater 
when  I  was  very  small — one  of  those  sort  of  conjurers 
who  swallow  flames  at  Hampstead — beautiful,  ugly 
flames  that  leap  to  one's  throat  and  terrify  the 
audience." 

"  This  is  excellent,"  Eugene  continued,  "  a  fire- 
eater  is  truly  most  nearly  alive  !  The  fire  he  absorbs 
is  most  readily  transmuted  into  Motion — into  Life  ! 
and  therefore  you  will  come  nearer  to  actually  living 
than  anbyody  else  I  could  have  chosen  .  .  .  Come, 
Miss  Fugit,  you  are  not  afraid  ?  " 

"  No — I  am  not  afraid  !  " 

"  Good  !  And  do  you  feel  any  new  sensation  in 
your  soul ?  " 

"  Yes — I  feel  like  the  Sun- King  coming  into  his 
kingdom  (i) — I  feel  warm — I  feel  lighter — I  feel  .  .  . 

(i)    This  is  probably  the  Kingdom -Come  so  often  mentioned. — 
(Note  by  Augustus  Meddlesome,  M.A.) 


270  RATHER  LIKE.... 

Oh,  I  feel  as  if  some  liquid,  fluid,  solid,  ethereal, 
burning  vapour,  were  slowly  impregnating  my  body  !  " 

Eugene  Dratoff  slowly  lowered  the  tube,  out  of 
which  a  pungent  vapour  was  beginning  to  rise,  like 
the  snowy  mists  that  mount  from  the  dreamy  valleys 
whenever  the  flash  of  morn  caresses  them.  Liquid 
Fire  !  Here  were  straight,  curly  fumes — fumes  which 
the  vulgar  might  call  spirits — fumes  which  the  scientist 
in  him  proclaimed  to  be  the  quintessence  of  rare  fruits 
mellowed  by  the  fantastic  kiss  of  Heat  and  Motion  ! 

She  drank  them  avidly,  with  her  nose,  with  her 
ears,  with  her  very  soul !  And  the  new  Life  throbbed 
within  her — the  Life  she  had  never  known — the  Life 
that  was  to  be  hers,  henceforward,  whenever  Time 
and  circumstances  would  allow  ! 

"  More,  more  !  "  she  panted,  "  give  me  more  !  I 
like  the  smell,  and  the  taste  is  divine  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  is,"  replied  Dratoff.  "  My  Science 
cannot  fail !  Yet  another  poor  human  is  dragged 
upwards — heavenwards — by  its  might.  Oh,  the  deri- 
sion of  solid  matter  !  Now  you  feel  your  soul  rising 
forth  from  your  body  !  " 

Tempus  Fugit  now  stood  up,  quivering  with 
excitement.  She  seemed  hardly  capable  of  remaining 
still,  and  oddly  enough,  her  steps  were  uncertain. 
She  clutched  at  Dratoff,  lurched,  and  fell,  while  at  the 
same  time  she  gave  vent  to  a  weird  laugh. 

"  Saved  !  Yes — I  am  saved  !  You  are  two  men 
— there  are  two  booths — everything  is  two  !  .  .  .  Give 
me  .  .  .  some  more  ...  for  to-day — for  to-morrow 
— for  always  !  " 

"  That  is  enough  for  to-day,"  he  answered,  his  gaze 
full  of  the  wonder  of  discovered  worlds.  '  To-day 
you  are  freed  from  the  mortal  strain  of  matter — to-day 
you  live!  To-morrow,  if  you  are  again  chilly  and 


MARIE  CORELLI  271 

sad,  you  may  forget  again  :  cold  is  only  negative 
Motion — Motion  is  life — the  Fumes  are  Motion — the 
fire-tube  makes  the  fumes — the  Liquid  fills  the  Tube  (2) 
— the  bottle  contains  the  Liquid — the  bottle  is  here  !  " 
And  he  set  upon  the  miserable  floor  a  bottle — a 
bottle  which  he  took  from  the  pocket  of  his  coat — a 
large  round  bottle — a  bottle  on  which  her  fervid  gaze 
read  the  double  word  "  WHISKEY  "—though  it  was 
inscribed  but  once  .  .  . 

(2)  Also  the  Straphangers. — (Note  by  Augustus  Meddlesome,  M.A.) 


272  RATHER  LIKE.... 


WILLIAM   LE   QUEUX 

THE   PURPLE   PRALINE 


"  XT'ES,  it  is  terrible,  terrible  !  "  said  my  friend  the 
Cavaliere  Rabbitskini,  who  had  hastily 
summoned  me  by  telephone  from  my 
comfortable  quarters  in  Baysvvater  to  his  own 
luxurious  suite  at  the  "  Cecil."  I  had  made  his 
acquaintance  at  Monte-Carlo  some  months  pre- 
viously, when  I  had  been  sent  thither  on  an 
unofficial  mission  by  one  of  the  most  powerful  mon- 
archs  of  Southern  Europe,  whom  discretion  forbids  to 
name.  The  Cavaliere  was  staying  at  the  same  hotel 
— the  best  in  the  place,  of  course — and  it  had  not 
taken  me  long  to  discover  that  he  was  in  the  diplomatic 
service  of  a  Power  the  sovereign  of  which  has  several 
times  been  pleased  to  commend  my  modest  labours. 
Our  acquaintance  had  quickly  blossomed  into  intimate 
friendship,  and  I  had  not  been  astonished  at  all  on 
receiving  a  telephone-call  from  Rabbitskini,  though 
I  did  not  know,  at  the  moment,  that  he  was  in  London 
at  aU. 

I  answered  the  Cavaliere's  summons  at  once,  de- 
lighted at  the  opportunity  of  seeing  my  old  friend ; 


WILLIAM  LE  QUEUX  273 

but  instead  of  the  shining  Southern  eyes  and  black 
hair  I  was  accustomed  to  see,  there  he  appeared  before 
me  like  a  stricken  man,  his  face  careworn  and  wan, 
and  with  an  abundant  profusion  of  white  hair  upon 
his  handsome  head. 

He  proceeded  at  once  to  explain  the  trouble  that 
was  evidently  distressing  him. 

"  I  am  just  back  from  Rome,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  "  where  I  have  been  commissioned  to  bring 
over  some  documents  of  European  importance  to 
France.  I  need  hardly  say,"  he  added,  "  that  my 
mission  is  quite  confidential,  involving  two  of  the 
greatest  names  the  present  times  can  boast  of." 

"  I  understand,"  I  assented.  For  one  who,  like 
myself,  has  been  happy  in  meeting  most  of  the  crowned 
heads  of  Europe,  and  boasts  to  be  on  terms  of  friend- 
ship with  not  a  few  of  them,  the  nature  of  my  friend's 
mission,  was,  of  course,  perfectly  easy  to  grasp. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  the  most  important  of  these 
papers — the  one  which  may  bring  a  dreadful  calamity 
on  the  face  of  international  politics,  has  disappeared  ! 
I  had  it  in  my  bag,  here,  with  the  others — now  it  is 
gone,  and  I  am  ruined  !  .  .  .  My  friend,  if  ever  I 
have  been  in  need  of  your  help,  it  is  now  !  Without  the 
stolen  document  I  am  as  a  dead  man — worse,  I  am 
dishonoured  !  You  will  not  refuse  your  help  ?  " 

'  My  dear  Cavaliere,"  I  promptly  replied,  "  my 
time,  of  which  I  have  an  abundant  profusion,  is  at 
your  service,  and  I  may  venture  to  say,  I  hope,  that 
I  have  some  experience  in  these  matters.  I  remember 
a  similar  case  that  happened  to  Sir  Laurence  Tommy- 
rot  less  than  three  years  ago  .  .  .  But  stay  !  "  I  broke 
out  suddenly  struck  by  a  brilliant  clue — "  If  you  were 
on  your  way  from  Rome  to  France,  how  is  it  the 
document  was  stolen  in  London  ?  " 
17 


274  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  My  friend,  nous  autres  statesmen  must  be  ever 
wary.  I  knew  very  well  I  was  being  followed  and 
spied  upon.  It  would  have  been  too  simple  to  go  to 
Paris  by  the  direct  route  :  any  fool  could  have  done 
that  ...  I  came  over  to  London,  via  Switzerland 
and  Belgium,  intending  to  then  cross  back  to  Paris." 

"  Yes,"  I  muttered  ;  "  the  thief,  whoever  he  is, 
must  be  an  old  hand,  with  enough  cunning  to  im- 
mediately grasp  the  intricacies  of  diplomatic  service 
.  .  .  But  he  has  left  no  trace  of  his  presence  ?  " 

"  There  are  too  many,  alas  !  "  moaned  the  Cava- 
liere,  "  and  the  most  important  of  all  is  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  document."  He  dropped  his  voice  to  a 
hoarse  whisper :  "  Look  at  this,"  he  added,  and 
pointed  to  a  crumpled  piece  of  tissue  paper,  on  which 
I  read,  after  flattening  it  out,  the  letters  F.O.O.L. 

"  This  is  extraordinary  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Have 
you  seen  anything  of  Nadejda  Rubbishska  lately  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Rabbitskini," — but  what  has  that 
to  do  with  .  .  ." 

"  Everything,  mon  cher,"  I  replied.  "  Nadejda  has 
a  weakness  for  pralines — and  especially  for  Osborne 
Owen's.  This  slip  of  paper  may  be  the  clue  we  are 
looking  for  !  " 

"  But  you  do  not  mean  to  say," — hastily  began  the 
Cavaliere. 

"  I  mean  to  say  I  am  beginning  to  understand  ! 
My  friend,  this  crumpled  bit  of  paper  was  made  to 
wrap  up  a  little  bonbon — it  bears  the  name  of  the 
firm  I  mentioned — Frank  Osbome  Owen,  London— 
her  favourite  firm  !  .  .  .  What  would  be  more  natural 
therefore  than  that  she  should  have  dropped  it  here  ? 
If  she  dropped  it,  she  must  have  come  here  !  If  she 
came,  she  must  have  taken  something  with  her  as  a 
souvenir  .  .  .  One  of  your  papers  is  missing  ...  It 


WILLIAM  LE  QUEUX  275 

must  be  that,  therefore  .  .  .  My  friend,  I  begin  to 
see  !  Before  a  month  has  elapsed,  I  shall  unravel 
this  mystery  !  You  may  count  upon  me  !  " 

I  rose  and  took  leave  of  the  Cavaliere  Rabbitskini. 
As  I  left  the  luxuriously-furnished  salon,  I  thought 
I  heard  the  rippling  sound  of  a  woman's  laughter. 

II 

Three  days  later,  I  was  at  Petersburg,  wandering 
through  the  beautifully  lit  garden  of  the  Villa  Rode. 
I  was  surrounded  by  the  brilliant  society  of  the  Russian 
capital — officers  in  uniform,  with  splendid  crosses  on 
their  smart  tunics,  women  in  evening  dress,  carrying 
themselves  with  that  elastic  swing  which  is  inherent 
in  the  Slav  girl,  fair-haired  men  smiling  and  conversing 
in  soft  musical  tones  which  no  Englishman  can  ever 
hope  to  attain.  The  atmosphere  was  one  of  luxurious 
ease,  and  seemed  ever  so  far  away  from  the  sordid 
reality  which  too  often  mars  the  joy  of  our  western 
revelry. 

I  had  noticed  from  afar  the  form  of  a  tall,  blonde 
girl  with  perfect,  regular  features,  who  was  clad  in  a 
magnificent  decollete  dress  of  green  silk,  and  carrying 
herself  with  that  elegance  which  an  Englishwoman 
alone  can  call  hers.  I  recognised  her  at  once,  and 
walked  up  to  her  as  soon  as  the  young  captain  of  the 
guard,  who  was  in  deep  conversation  with  her,  de- 
parted towards  the  brilliantly-lit  buffet. 

"  What !  You  here,  my  friend  ?  "  she  exclaimed 
in  a  deep,  melodious  voice  which  proclaimed  her  to  be 
charmingly  foreign.  "  I  thought  you  were  at  Monte- 
Carlo  !" 

"  No,  my  dear  Nadejda,"  I  replied,  bending  over 
her  jewelled  hand.  "  I  always  leave  the  sunny  South 


276  RATHER  LIKE.... 

at  this  period  of  the  year."  I  tried  to  speak  as  casually 
as  I  could,  but  I  could  not  help  noticing  the  look  of 
anxiety  that  passed  across  her  face  as  she  espied  me. 

Yes,  she  was  certainly  lovely,  I  reflected,  and  any 
man  would  be  ready  to  suffer  mortal  agonies  to  call 
her  his.  Nadejda  Rubbishska  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  in  Europe,  and  I  had  met  her  in 
various  capitals,  where  she  had  always  been  a  favourite 
in  the  best  society. 

"  Is  not  this  garden  lovely  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  think 
it  is  one  of  the  sweetest  spots  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Especially  when  there  is  a  charming  young 
guardsman  to  accompany  one,"  I  supplemented, 
smiling. 

"  Ha  !     You  have  noticed  I  wTas  not  alone  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Nadejda,  I  have  travelled  far  and  wide, 
and  know  the  ways  of  the  world.  Who  would  think 
of  coming  alone  to  the  Villa  Rode  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  are  here  alone,  for  that  matter,"  she 
rejoined,  "  unless  .  .  .  But  no,  it  is  impossible  !  " 

"  Quite,"  I  replied,  joining  in  her  smile.  "  I  came 
alone,  as  you  surmise,  but  I  have  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  departing  in  the  same  manner.  I  am  sure 
the  Gospoja  Nadejda  Rubbishska  will  deign  to  let  me 
see  her  back  to  her  hotel." 

My  assurance  evidently  vexed  her.  '  You  are 
sure  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  and  what  will  Captain  Swaggeroff 
say  ?  " 

"  I  care  very  little  for  what  he  says,  I  assure 
you.  The  fact  is,  my  dear  Nadejda,  I  have  something 
very  important  to  tell  you — something  very  impor- 
tant." 

Just  at  that  moment,  the  young  captain  was 
returning,  bearing  a  cup  of  iced  champagne  on  a 
silver  tray.  "  Hotitie  li  Vuec  .  .  ."  ?  he  began.  But 
I  interrupted  him  at  once. 


WILLIAM  LE  QUEUX  277 

"  Gospodin  Kapitan,"  I  threw  in,  "  I  am  exceedingly 
sorry  to  interrupt,  but  I  believe  I  have  the  honour 
of  addressing  Piotr  Picklovitch  Swaggeroff  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  name,"  he  replied,  a  trifle  haughtily, 
"  but  I  have  not  the  honour  of  your  acquaintance, 
doomayoo." 

"  Nitchevo,"  I  smilingly  assented,  with  an  Oriental 
shrug.  "  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  message  to  you  from 
His  Imperial  Majesty." 

He  immediately  fell  to  attention,  and  saluted  me 
in  the  military  manner,  while  I  took  a  slip  of  paper 
from  my  breast  pocket,  and  handed  it  to  him.  The 
paper  bore  the  Imperial  seal,  and  no  officer  would 
dare  disobey  the  order  it  contained.  He  turned  to  his 
companion  with  keen  regret  stamped  on  his  youthful 
face. 

"  I  am  summoned  to  the  Winter  Palace  at  once," 
he  said,  a  tremor  in  his  voice.  "  How  can  I  ask  you 
to  excuse  me,  Nadejda  Sickovna  ?  " 

The  girl  had  become  deathly  pale.  "  Pray  do  not 
trouble,  Gospodin  Kapitan,"  I  reassured  him;  "  I  shall 
see  your  charming  friend  back."  At  the  same  time, 
I  darted  a  look  of  intense  meaning  full  at  her  eyes  ; 
she  was  trembling  all  over,  but  she  said  nothing  as 
the  captain  kissed  her  hand  and  departed,  saluting. 

"  You  did  well  to  be  reasonable,"  I  said  to  her  as 
soon  as  we  were  alone  once  more  ;  "if  you  had  be- 
trayed yourself  by  so  much  as  a  word,  Piotr  Picklo- 
vitch would  have  known  all.  Even  now  .  .  .  !  " 
My  voice,  though  low,  was  full  of  unspoken  menace,  and 
Nadejda  knew  that  I  do  not  threaten  in  vain. 

"  Come,  what  is  it  you  want  ?  "  she  asked  fiercely, 
her  voice  losing  all  the  musical  softness  that  gave  it 
so  much  Oriental  charm. 

"  That  you  shall  soon  learn,  my  dear,"  I  replied, 


278  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"  But  first  of  all,  may  I  offer  you  one  of  these  pra- 
lines?" 

I  tendered  her  a  jewelled  box  which  I  took  from 
my  pocket,  and  her  pallor  increased  ;  she  would  have 
fallen,  but  for  my  protecting  arm. 

"  What  ?  "  she  gasped,  "  pralines — and  an  order 
from  the  Czar  ?  Then  you  must  know  .  .  .  !  " 

"  I  know  all,"  I  sternly  replied,  "and  you  must 
come  with  me  and  undo  the  mischief  you  have  made. 
Quick,  or  your  lover  may  pay  the  penalty  !  " 

Unresisting,  she  let  herself  be  led  to  the  cloakroom, 
and  we  jumped  into  my  troika  that  was  waiting 
outside. 

"  To  the  Southern  station  ! "  I  called  to  the 
moujik,  and  away  clattered  the  horses. 

Before  leaving,  however,  I  had  picked  up  a  tiny 
silver  box  which  Nadejda  had  dropped,  and  no  one, 
not  even  herself,  had  noticed  the  slight  movement  of 
mine. 


Ill 


The  Nord-Express  had  just  arrived  at  the  Gare  du 
Nord,  bearing  me  and  my  unwilling  companion  to  the 
French  capital.  Directly  1  was  outside  the  station, 
I  hailed  a  taxi,  and  was  driven  to  my  comfortable  flat 
in  the  Avenue  Kleber.  Notwithstanding  that  I  am 
keenly  cosmopolitan,  I  usually  have  an  apartment 
in  most  of  the  European  capitals,  which  enables  me  to 
take  what  steps  in  my  various  important  and  confi- 
dential missions  that  I  desire. 

Each  throb  of  the  motor,  and  each  tick  of  the 
taxi,  was  now  bringing  me  nearer  the  solution  of  the 
mystery,  and  very  soon  I  hoped,  with  an  abundant 
profusion  of  certainty,  to  restore  the  stolen  document 


WILLIAM  LE  QUEUX  279 

to  the  hands  of  my  friend  the  Cavaliere  Rabbitskini. 
My  companion  was  still,  like  myself,  in  evening  dress, 
for  she  had  no  luggage  with  her  as  we  left  the  Russian 
capital ;  here,  in  the  sunny  daylight  of  Paris,  her  low- 
necked  gown  looked  oddly  out  of  place  ;  yet,  despite 
the  look  of  abject  terror  in  her  eyes,  she  carried  herself 
with  that  easy,  elastic  swing,  which  no  other  but  the 
Slav  woman  can  ever  hope  to  possess. 

"  Here  we  are,"  I  said,  as  the  taxi  stopped  in  front 
of  a  monumental  immeuble  near  the  Trocadero.  And 
I  led  her  towards  the  lift. 

I  spoke  a  few  words  in  French  to  my  valet,  on 
entering  the  flat,  and  conducted  Nadejda  Rubbishska 
to  my  study.  As  soon  as  the  cafe-au-lait  and  croissants 
had  been  brought  in,  I  turned  to  her  again,  a  smile  of 
contentment  on  my  hitherto  anxious  face. 

"  Are  you  not  afriaid,"  I  asked,  "  to  drink  coffee 
with  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  be  ?  "  she  replied,  defiance  leaping 
to  her  bloodless  lips. 

"  Because,"  I  very  slowly  made  answer,  "  it 
would  be  terribly  easy  for  me  to  slip  in  a  few  drops  of 
cyanhydric  acid." 

She  started  up  in  terror.  "  Spare  me !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  Oh  !  I  am  only  a  poor,  defenceless  girl, 
and  you  cannot,  surely,  use  your  man's  strength 
against  ..." 

"  Against  your  womanish  wits  !  "  I  supplemented 
"  No,  Nadejda,  I  shall  not  use  my  man's  strength, 
because,  at  last,  I  have  a  proof  against  you  —  a 
material  pilce  a  conviction  /  ' 

And  I  took  out  of  my  waistcoat  pocket  the  tiny 
silver  box  which  she  had  dropped  as  we  left  the  Villa 
Rode. 

"  You   fiend  !  "   she  hissed,   clenching  her  small 


280  RATHER  LIKE.... 

fists.  If  hate  could  kill,  I  would  have  been  a  dead 
man  then. 

"It  is  no  use  resisting,  Nadejda,"  I  calmly  pro- 
ceeded, "  the  game  is  up.  My  friend,  Roger  Foulcan, 
the  Chef  de  la  Surete,  is  waiting  for  you  outside,  and 
I  shall  hand  you  over  to  him  .  .  .  unless " 

"  Unless  ?  "  she  echoed,  breathless. 

"  Unless  you  restore  to  the  Cavaliere  Rabbitskini 
the  paper  you  so  cleverly  stole  from  his  room  in 
London,  ten  days  ago  !  " 

"  And  if  I  refuse  ?  "  she  enquired,  a  shade  of 
defiance  still  throbbing  in  her  voice. 

"  If  you  refuse,  you  will  immediately  be  arrested 
by  the  Paris  police,  and,"  I  harshly  added,  "  Piotr 
Picklovitch  will  eat  your  purple  praline ! " 

The  last  words  produced  the  effect  I  had  hoped 
for.  "  It  is  well,"  she  said,  "  I  will  give  you  back  the 
document." 

She  appeared  submissive  enough,  now  the  fight 
turned  against  her.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  spoke  a 
few  words  to  my  man,  whereupon  my  friend  the 
Cavaliere  was  shown  into  the  room. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,  amico  mio,"  he 
exclaimed,  pressing  my  hand,  "  and  with  the  Signor- 
ina,  too  ?  "  he  continued,  his  voice  full  of  a  question- 
ing tone. 

"  The  Signorina  will  be  charming  enough  to  give 
you  back  your  strayed  paper,  my  dear  Cavaliere — 
n'est-ce  pas,  Nadejda  ?  "  I  replied. 

The  girl,  with  that  feline  grace  which  Southern 
women  alone  possess,  extracted  a  folded  note  from 
her  bosom,  and  tendered  it  to  the  Cavaliere,  who  took 
it  eagerly  from  her  outstretched  fingers. 

'  Yes  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  that  is  the  very  paper ! 
I  am  saved,  thank  God  !  .  .  .  And  Europe  is  spared  a 


WILLIAM  LE  QUEUX  281 

catastrophe !  .  .  .Ah,  my  friend,  how  can  I  ever 
thank  you  ?  "  He  came  towards  me  with  tears  of 
joy  in  his  eyes,  and  I  understood  his  delight  as  he 
took  both  my  hands  in  his. 

"  But  how  have  you  been  able  to  restore  the  lost 
document  ?  "  he  enquired,  amazement  getting  the 
better  of  his  joy. 

"  It  has  been  a  difficult  mystery  to  solve,"  I  replied, 
"  but  I  set  my  wits  to  it  as  never  before,  and  the  result 
has  not  been  lacking,  When  I  was  in  your  rooms 
at  the  '  Cecil,'  "  I  began  my  explanation,  "  I  was  able 
to  at  once  notice  a  slip  of  crumpled  paper,  from 
which  it  was  child's  play  to  deduce  the  truth  :  that 
Nadejda  Rubbishska — or  I  should  say  Sally  Sloper, 
for  that  is  her  real  name — was  the  thief.  The  difficulty 
was  not  to  trace  her,  either,  as  I  knew  she  was  due 
at  Petersburg  very  shortly,  an  a  confidential  mission 
for  a  monarch  I  cannot  name  at  present ;  no,  the 
difficulty  was  to  secure  a  hold  upon  her — to  find  some 
way  of  forcing  her,  without  scandal,  to  restore  what 
she  had  stolen  .  .  .  That  is  where  I  had  to  cudgel 
my  brains  !  But  ere  long  I  found  a  way  ..." 

"  Serpent !  "  hissed  the  girl,  hardly  able  to  control 
her  rage,  though  endowed  with  that  elastic  carriage 
which  is  inherent  in  the  woman  from  ihe  North. 
But  I  went  on,  heedless  of  the  interruption. 

"  I  knew  she  had  a  passion  for  pralines,  and  I  also 
remembered  several  cases  of  mysterious  deaths  that 
have  never  been  solved — poor  Count  Rotteno,  less 
than  a  year  ago,  for  instance — and  others.  There 
must  be  some  link,  I  thought,  between  these  .  .  ." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  the  Cavaliere,  "  you  think 
» 

"  Listen,  my  friend  !  Pralines  are  roasted  almonds, 
and  Osborne  Owen's,  Nadejda's  favourite  ones,  are 


282  RATHER  LIKE.... 

remarkable  for  their  bitterness.  Now,  bitter  almonds 
contain  a  certain  quantity  of  cyanhydric  acid,  one  of  the 
deadliest  known  poisons  ...  Do  you  begin  to  see  ? 
.  .  .  Nadejda  was  a  great  consumer  of  Osborne  Owen's 
pralines — but  not  for  herself  !  By  distilling  the  al- 
monds she  could,  without  exciting  suspicion,  procure 
sufficient  doses  of  the  terrible  poison,  which  she  kept 
in  a  tiny  silver  box,  and  gave  her  victims  to  absorb 
in  a  purple  sweet." 

"  This  is  marvellous  !  "  said  Rabbitskini.  "  But 
how  were  you  able  to  get  a  hold  upon  her  ?  " 

"  L'eternel  masculin,"  I  replied,  smiling.  "  It  was 
easy  for  me  to  learn  that  she  was  engaged  to  a 
young  captain  of  the  Russian  Guard.  Moreover, 
I  have  been  happy  enough  of  late,  to  do  his  Imperial 
Majesty  some  little  services  which  he  was  glad  to 
commend,  and  to  reciprocate  when  I  made  bold  to 
ask.  At  the  Villa  Rode,  where  I  saw  Nadejda  and  her 
lover,  I  noticed  that  he  had  taken  a  praline  out  of  a 
box  she  had  handed  to  him  :  I  was  not  slow  to  at 
once  seize  upon  the  opportunity,  for  I  noticed  the 
sweet  was  a  purple  one  !  If  she  refused  to  follow 
me,  I  would  expose  her  to  her  lover,  who  would  eat 
the  praline  as  a  test — and  then  .  .  .  !  I  had  her  in 
my  hands  now  !  Nadejda  was  at  her  wits'  end,  and 
as  a  last  resource,  tried  to  drop  her  dangerous  silver 
box  ;  I  picked  it  up  unnoticed,  however,  and " 

A  loud  shriek  interrupted  me.  We  both  turned 
round  hastily  .  •  •  Nadejda  Rubbishska  was  lying 
prone  on  the  floor,  a  purple  praline  between  her  teeth, 
a  look  of  defiance  still  upon  her  ghastly  face  .  .  . 

It  was  a  Friday,  and  I  have  good  reason  to  remem- 
ber the  day  on  which  at  last  was  solved  the  mystery 
of  the  Purple  Praline. 


CHARLES  GARVICE  283 


CHARLES   GARVICE 

THE   POWER  OF  LOVE 
I 

HAROLD  MAYFORD  was  walking  moodily  along 
Piccadilly,  his  back  turned  upon  the  busy 
heart  of  London. 

Things  had  decidedly  been  against  him  of  late — 
and  just  when  Falje  ought  to  have  stood  by  him,  as  he 
told  himself  that  the  chances  that  the  life  that  he 
was  leading  would  come  to  an  end  were  rapidly  in- 
creasing. The  hope  which  he  had  thought  he  had  a 
right  to  entertain  seemed  foolish  in  the  face  of  his 
present  condition,  and  there  were  less  opportunities 
than  ever  of  his  retrieving  his  fortunes.  Only  a  week 
ago,  he  was  the  happiest  man  alive,  and  now ! 

Harold  was  the  head  clerk  in  the  office  of  Walker 
and  Stalker,  the  influential  and  fashionable  solicitors  ; 
he  was  not  as  old  as  most  of  the  young  clerks  one  may 
meet  in  most  of  the  similar  firms,  but  though  he 
numbered  less  years  than  many,  his  learning  and 
experience  qualified  him  very  well  for  the  high  position 
that  was  his.  He  had  been  used  to  clean  living  and 
hard  work,  having  spent  his  childhood  in  Devonshire, 


284  RATHER  LIKE.... 

where,  as  a  baim,  he  used  to  play  to  his  heart's  content 
with  the  other  boys  and  colleens,  and  spend  less  hours 
than  he  ought  to  have  done  at  the  dame's  school  that 
was  an  establishment  that  professsd  to  teach  almost 
everything.  The  days  passed  by,  and  he  became 
a  bronzed-cheeked  youth,  used  to  being  starved  with 
the  cold  or  numbed  from  doing  without  tea  ;  he  was 
sent  to  a  public  school,  which  turned  him  out  as  quite 
a  fine  young  man,  healthy  in  body,  soul,  and  intellect, 
with  a  strapping  constitution  and  the  desire  to  get  on. 
He  had  easily  found  a  situation  in  the  city,  and  by 
dint  of  hard  work  and  thorough  conscientiousness, 
had  been  promoted  before  he  was  thirty  to  the  un- 
usually high  position  he  now  occupied  for  a  man  of 
his  age. 

Indeed,  everything  had  gone  very  well — not  as 
well,  of  course,  as  they  might  have  done  in  a  leaf 
drawn  from  the  Golden  Age,  but  still  most  satisfact- 
orily. A  month  ago,  too,  he  had  been  introduced 
to  Mamie  Fullerton  at  a  ball  that  old  Mrs.  Somerset 
had  thought  that  she  was  obliged  to  give  every  year. 
Harold,  with  that  perfect  ease  that  obtains  in  the 
West-end  drawing-rooms,  had  spent  a  heavenly 
evening,  though  he  had  not  imagined  that  the  pleasure 
that  he  felt  that  the  young  girl  had  given  him  was 
anything  stronger  than  an  ordinary  sensation  of 
sympathy  which  he  had  felt  almost  certain  he  had 
experienced  many  a  time  before.  Since  then,  he  had 
had  less  chances  than  ever  of  forgetting  Mamie,  whom 
he  had  met  several  times,  either  in  town  or  at  her 
father's  country-house,  where  he  had  been  invited 
several  times,  and  had  had  ample  opportunity  to 
feel  that  he  was  welcome. 

Then,  suddenly,  yesterday,  the  crash  had  come. 
An  important  document  involving  great  losses  in  the 


CHARLES  GARVICE  285 

famous  Stuart-Melville  case,  had  disappeared  from 
Walker  and  Stalker's,  and  he,  as  head  clerk,  was,  of 
course,  responsible  for  the  loss.  Not  only  was  he 
completely  beggared  by  this  stroke  of  ill-luck,  but 
even  his  reputation,  which  he  had  thought  he  had 
maintained  above  suspicion,  was  tarnished  thereby  : 
it  was  darkly  hinted  that  he  had  purposely  mislaid 
the  valuable  deed,  and  all  sorts  of  dark  and  dastardly 
motives  were  ascribed  to  such  an  act  of  secret  cunning. 
His  employers  had  not  mentioned  it,  naturally,  but 
the  sneer  that  he  had  thought  that  he  had  seen  on  Mr. 
Walker's  usually  benignant  face,  and  the  frown  on 
Mr.  Stalker's,  had  been  sufficient  to  show  him  how 
things  were  being  taken  in  that  quarter.  If  the  deed 
was  not  found  within  two  days,  he  must  resign,  he 
felt — he  could  not  face  a  dismissal.  And  that  meant 
losing  Mamie,  anyway  .  .  .  Yes,  things  were  indeed 
black  against  him. 

In  his  disconsolate  walk,  he  suddenly  bumped 
into  a  passer-by. 

"  What  the  deuce !  "  began  the  victim,  and 

suddenly  changed  his  tone  :  "  Why,  if  it  isn't  Mayford  ! 
How  are  you,  old  man  ?  " 

The  speaker,  whose  name  was  Cuthbert  Harrison, 
was  a  former  clerk  of  Walker  and  Stalker's,  a  handsome 
youth  who  was  making  a  name  for  himself  as  a  stock- 
broker. 

"  Oh !  Harrison  !  "  replied  Harold,  absently, 
"  very  glad  to  meet  you,  I'm  sure." 

"  What's  the  matter,  old  chap  ?  You  look  rather 
downhearted  !  ...  If  I  didn't  know  you  to  be  per- 
fectly virtuous,  I  might  believe  you've  been  betting 
rather  heavily,  and  running  into  debt.  .  .  But  I 
know  very  well  it  can't  be  that  .  .  ." 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  snapped  Harold.    He  had  never 


286  RATHER  LIKE.... 

had  a  liking  for  Harrison,  and  he  thought  he  detected 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  sneer  in  his  too  friendly 
talk. 

"  No  offence  meant,  my  dear  fellow  ...  I  didn't 
imagine  you  were  so  touchy  !  By  the  way,  are  you 
going  to  the  Fullerton's  this  evening  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  am  .  .  .  The  fact  is,  I  am 
not  feeling  rather  well  to-day." 

"  Mean  to  turn  in  early  ?  Quite  the  best  thing, 
too  .  .  .  well,  good-bye." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Harold,  who  shook  it 
silently ;  but  he  could  not  help  thinking  that  the  face 
that  was  behind  the  hand  that  was  being  held  out  to 
him  was  not  a  frank,  open  face  that  one  delights  in 
meeting.  And  the  thought  that  Harrison  would  go 
to  the  Fullertons'  that  very  evening,  and  see  Mamie, 
while  he  would  sit  up  restlessly  in  his  chambers  in 
Baker  Street,  was  a  torture  to  his  honest  soul. 

Cuthbert  Harrison  continued  his  walk  at  a  brisk 
pace,  and  Harold  was  still  wondering  at  the  sarcastic 
tone  he  had  used  towards  him,  when  he  suddenly 
became  aware  of  a  shabby-looking  man  who  approached 
him  from  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  muttered  the  man,  coming  up 
to  him,  "  I  just  noticed  as  you  was  talking  to  Mr. 
'Arrison." 

"  Yes — well,  what  about  it  ?  "  enquired  Harold. 

'  You  see,  sir,  Mr.  'Arrison  and  I  don't  pick  off 
very  well  together,  and  I  thought  perhaps  as  I  saw  you 
talking  with  him,  as  you  might  sort  of  give  me  his 
address — that  is,  if  you've  no  objection,  of  course, 
sir." 

"  Really,  I  don't  know  whether  I  should  be  justi- 
fied. ..."  Harold  began.  But  the  shabby  man 
interrupted  him  at  once. 


CHARLES  GARVICE  287 

"  Of  course,  if  'e's  a  special  friend  o'  yours,  there's 
no  more  to  be  said.  But  I  should  advise  you  to  choose 
your  friends  a  bit  better,  that's  all.  A  low-down, 
lying  skunk — that's  what  Mr.  'Arrison  is  at  'eart — 
and  I've  got  good  proof  of  it,  too  !  " 

"  Look  here,  my  man,"  said  Harold,  "  I  don't 
want  to  listen  to  your  wild  talk."  He  sincerely  hoped 
the  man  would  leave  him  alone,  yet  he  was  oddly 
fascinated  by  what  he  had  said  :  these  revelations 
of  Cuthbert  Harrison's  true  character  hardly  came 
as  a  surprise  to  him,  for  he  was  a  good  judge  of 
men. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  leave  me,"  he  went  on. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  the  shabby  man.  "  I've  got  the 
thin  end  of  a  wedge  in  Mr.  'Arrison's  side — and  I  want 
to  get  even  with  'im  for  the  wrong  'e's  done  me  !  I 
got  three  years  hard  for  a  forgery  he  was  the  actual 
author  of — and  now  I've  got  information  about  the 
Stuart-Melville  deed  ..." 

Harold  sprang  up  at  the  name. 

"  What  has  Mr.  Harrison  to  do  with  the  Stuart- 
Melville  case  ?  " 

"  Ah !  That's  just  his  little  game !  He  knows 
that  nobody  knows  that  I  know  anything  about  it ; 
but,  for  once,  he's  wrong !  " 

"  Look  here,"  exclaimed  Harold  in  a  terse  whisper, 
"  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  Mr.  Harrison, 
but  any  information  you  can  give  me  about  the  Stuart- 
Melville  deed  I  am  most  anxious  to  hear,  and  shall 
readily  pay  for.  Come  !  Name  your  price  !  " 

"  Not  'ere,  sir — not  'ere  in  the  street." 

"  Well,  then,  come  with  me  to  my  place — quick  !  " 

He  hailed  a  taxi,  and  the  two  men  were  soon 
seated  in  Mayford's  comfortable  chambers.  The  inter- 
view did  not  last  many  minutes,  but  it  was  quite  long 


288  RATHER  LIKE.... 

enough  to  melt  Harold's  moodiness  and  to  give  him 
back  the  buoyancy  he  had  lost  but  so  short  a  while  ago. 

II 

Cuthbert  Harrison  was  a  trequent  visitor  at  the 
Fullerton's,  and  his  handsome  figure  and  smart 
clothes  made  him  a  favourite  in  society.  The  dinner, 
to-night,  in  their  large  house  in  Pont  Street,  was  quite 
a  social  function,  and  Lady  Fullerton  was  rather 
proud  of  her  guests.  The  fact  that  Harold  Mayford 
failed  to  put  in  an  appearance  passed  without  com- 
ment, and  even  without  notice,  though  Mamie  looked 
rather  anxiously  at  each  new  guest  before  Harrison 
finally  took  her  in  to  dinner.  He  was  in  high  spirits, 
and  did  not  mean  to  let  the  shadow  of  an  anxiety 
trouble  his  fair  companion. 

"  I  am  really  glad  they  have  given  me  a  seat  next 
to  you,"  he  said  to  her  with  a  pleasant  smile  ;  "  fancy 
me  sitting  between  old  Lady  Podger  and  Miss  Tomkins, 
for  instance  !  " 

"  Why,  they  are  both  very  nice,  I'm  sure,"  replied 
Mamie. 

"  Like  most  of  the  '  very  nice  '  people  one  meets," 
he  retorted,  "  the  farther  the  nicer." 

He  did  not  allow  the  conversation  to  flag  for  an 
instant,  and  she  responded  readily  to  his  efforts. 
Mamie  was  quite  a  pretty  girl  with  blue  eyes  and  a 
wealth  of  golden  hair  that  she  had  done  up  in  a  charm- 
ingly girlish  and  becoming  manner  ;  and  her  simple 
dress  was  as  graceful  as  any  elaborate  creation  of 
fashion. 

After  some  desultory  talk,  the  topics  of  the  day 
were  mentioned,  and  Lady  Podger  put  in  a  word 
about  the  Stuart-Melville  case. 


CHARLES  GARVICE  289 

"It  is  most  remarkable,  really,"  she  said.  "  My 
brother  told  me  to-day  everything  depends  upon  the 
production  of  an  old  deed,  and  I  tell  myself  that  the 
chances  are  that  the  document  that  is  the  key  that 
is  missing  will  never  be  found  at  all." 

"  Have  you  any  private  information  ?  "  enquired 
Sir  Morton  Fullerton,  with  a  note  of  amused  scepticism 
in  his  voice. 

"  I  don't  think  anybody  has  the  least  knowledge 
about  it  at  all,"  put  in  Harrison. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  so  sure,  young  man,"  retorted 
Lady  Podger.  "  I  heard  something  about  a  discharged 
clerk  and  a  stolen  copy  of  the  deed — and  it  is  difficult 
not  to  feel  interested  in  such  a  mystery." 

There  was  nothing  very  remarkable  in  this  piece 
of  information,  as  the  old  lady  always  "  heard  some- 
thing "  about  everything,  and  it  was  generally  proved 
that  her  knowledge  was  quite  imaginary — a  mere 
bubble  bursting  in  the  rapid  flow  of  smart  conversa- 
tion. Yet  Cuthbert  seemed  struck  with  the  remark, 
and  something  of  his  high  spirits  froze  in  the  warm 
atmosphere  of  the  dinner-table,  as  the  repast  drew  to 
its  end. 

While  the  ladies  were  retiring  to  the  drawing-room, 
one  of  the  maids,  whose  name  was  Jane,  came  up  to 
her,  and  murmured  something  in  her  ear. 

"  For  me  ?  "  answered  the  girl,  "  you  are  sure  he 
asked  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  miss,  I'm  quite  sure,"  she  insisted,  "  an' 
he  says  as  he's  got  to  see  you  on  hurgent  business — 
about  Mr.  Mayford,  miss." 

Mamie's  heart  gave  a  jump  ;  she  had  not  expected 
to  hear  that  name  now — and  in  such  queer  circum- 
stances. 

r"   <  "  It\ isn't  Mr.  Mayford  himself,  by  any  chance?  " 
she  asked. 


290  RATHER  LIKE.... 

"Lor!  No,  miss,"  replied  Jane.  "I  know  Mr. 
Mayford  well  enough,  I  assure  you,  to  be  able  to 
distinguish  him  from  the  shabby  man  as  is  waiting 
houtside  in  the  conservatory,  miss." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mamie,  "  I  shall  go  and  see 
what  he  wants." 

She  followed  the  maid  to  the  conservatory,  where 
a  shabbily-dressed  man  was  waiting,  hat  in  hand. 
He  advanced  towards  her  with  a  respectful  look  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Good  evening,  miss.  Please  excuse  my  disturb- 
ing you  at  this  time  of  the  day,  but  I  have  important 
news  to  communicate  to  you." 

"  What  is  it  ?  Quick  !  I  can't  spare  you  more 
than  a  moment,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  shan't  detain  you  long,  miss.  I  only  want  to 
give  you  this."  And  he  took  a  large  envelope  out 
of  his  shabby  coat,  which  he  handed  to  the  astonished 
girl.  "  There's  nothing  to  hurt  you,  miss,  on  the 
contrary — I  shouldn't  dream  of  hurting  you"  he  went 
on.  '  You  see,  if  you  give  that  envelope  to  Mr. 
Mayford,  you'll  make  him  the  happiest  man  alive." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  "  she  asked,  sweetly 
blushing. 

"  Yes,  it's  ...  it's  a  paper  he  most  anxiously 
needs." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mamie,  "  I  believe  you.  I 
shall  say  I  have  got  a  headache,  and  take  it  to  his 
place  at  once."  She  spoke  the  words  with  a  note  of 
defiance,  that  showed  that  the  flutter  that  her  heart 
was  in  was  not  the  kind  that  leave  their  friends  in 
the  lurch.  Less  girls  than  one  thinks,  perhaps,  would 
have  acted  similarly ;  but  Mamie  was  staunch  in 
her  friendship — or  was  it  already  love  ? 

"  I  think  Mr.  Mayford  will  come  here  to-night," 


CHARLES  GARVICE  "291 

replied  the  stranger — "  at  least,  he  told  me  he  intended 
doing  so.  Good-bye,  Miss,  and  thank  you." 

He  went  out  as  quietly  as  he  had  come  in,  and  left 
her  in  a  gentle  flutter  of  anticipation. 

As  she  retraced  her  steps  towards  the  drawing- 
room,  she  saw  Harold  coming  into  the  hall.  A  rosy 
blush  spread  over  her  delicate  cheeks  as  he  came 
towards  her. 

"  Mamie  !  "  he  exclaimed  softly.  And  she  did  not 
resent  the  familiar  use  he  made  of  her  Christian  name 
— the  name  that  she  knew  that  he  knew  that  he  liked. 
Her  answer  came  deep  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
before  even  she  had  time  to  think  of  what  she  was 
going  to  say. 

"  Harold  !  "  she  murmured  very  sweetly,  "  why 
didn't  you  come  to  dinner  ?  " 

"  Because  I  was  a  fool,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  thought 
— I — I  could  never  come  again  ..." 

"  You  silly  boy !  "  she  cried  ;  and  there  was  pure 
joy  in  her  voice.  "  Who  told  you  that  ?  Mr.  Harri- 
son ?  " 

He  attempted  to  answer  ;  but  the  harder  he  tried, 
the  less  words  he  was  able  to  utter.  Love,  especially 
such  love  as  his,  bound  him  dumb  in  the  face  of  his 
happiness. 

"  By  the  way,"  she  went  on,  "  I  have  something 
for  you — something  very  important."  And  she  gave 
him  the  envelope  that  she  knew  that  the  shabby  man 
wanted  her  to  deliver  into  his  hands.  The  hope 
which  he  had  felt  he  had  renewed  came  flooding  his 
overfull  heart. 

"  The  deed  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  the  Stuart-Melville 
deed  !  Mamie,  I  am  saved  !  I  owe  you  more  than 
my  happiness  !  You  give  me  back  my  honour  !  " 

The  next  moment  she  was  in  his  arms,  and  they 


292  RATHER  LIKE.... 

were  in  rapture  like  two  children  He  looked  deeply 
into  the  eyes  of  the  woman  he  loved,  and  beheld 
binding  faith  and  everlasting  love. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  "  I  know  all — and  all  is  well. 
Harrison  thought  he  would  rob  me  of  everything  I 
had — my  situation,  my  good  name,  my  honour — and 
my  love  ;  but,  by  a  happy  chance,  you  have  given 
me  back  everything — I  owe  all  to  you !  " 

"  To  me  ?  "  she  exclaimed  in  grave  astonishment. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  The  man  who  gave  you  this 
envelope — and  gave  me  the  knowledge  of  Cuthbert 
Harrison's  guilt — acted  solely  for  you :  he  was  a 
crossing-sweep  in  former  days,  and  you  gave  him 
sixpence  on  a  frosty  day.  He  has  never  forgotten  it, 
and  his  devotion  is  the  fruit  of  your  sweet  charity !  " 

When  they  entered  the  drawing-room  together, 
Harrison  was  gone,  nor  was  he  ever  heard  of  again. 


THE    END. 


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